Foudre dans Leurs Yeux
by Hrse-Ridr1997
Summary: It wasn't supposed to happen like this, this was not how it was supposed to end. But somehow, they've survived, and must evade the consequences that seem to shadow them at every turn, even as ghosts from his past begin to resurface. Book and Movie (2012 one) based.
1. Chapter 1

_**Hey guys! So I'm writing again after a good two years hiatus! This is my own spin on what happened at the Barricade, I love Enjolras and the Barricade Boys to death (Oh my gosh excuse the pun!). I'll be updating this pretty regularly, whenever I have time! In this story, please for character references, I always picture Enjolras as Aaron Tveit, Courfeyrac as Fra Fee, Combeferre as Killian Donnelly, etc. Basically just picture them as they appeared in the 2012 musical! Please Enjoy and R &R!**_

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It wasn't supposed to end like this. This wasn't supposed to happen. The only ones left? The brave thing to do would be to fight to the end, to refuse to yield, though any doubt to be had about the outcome of their plight was vanquished now; to stay would be in vain.

Stupidity is often mistook for bravery, and bravery often mistook for courage. It was at this present moment that a war was raging inside his head concerning these three things. Stupid to stay, or brave? The pleading words of the National Guard commander gave him pause. The man was right, he loathed to admit. Why throw their lives away? Yes, he was willing to die, for the cause, for his Patria, but what of the others? Did they truly grasp what was about to happen? No, he was sure of it. One glance at Combeferre spoke volumes. A peek at Prouvaire made his heart ache with pity - the poor gentle man was terrified, and he wasn't the only one whose fear was tangible. He was certain the soldiers on the other side of the barricade could taste it in the air.

The sound of Courfeyrac's broken sobs, the sight of his friend crouched over the pale and motionless form of little Gavroche, these made up his mind. If his friends hadn't known before, they certainly knew now.

Enjolras spoke then, his quiet voice ringing with thunder as he gazed across the determined faces gathered around him.

"Let us die, facing our foes. Make them bleed while we can –"

"Make them pay through the nose!" Combeferre joined in from where he sat consoling Courfeyrac.

"Make them pay for every man!" Courfeyrac raised his tearstained face.

"Let others rise, to take our place, until the Earth is _free_!" Enjolras let his words ring clear across the barricade, looking away from where the old man, the mysterious volunteer, had gently picked up Gavroche and was carrying him into the Musain. As he raised his rifle towards the Guardsmen, he knew their commander had heard him as well. The two opposing leaders locked eyes over the impromptu battlefield, and Enjolras saw the regret in the older man's eyes. The commander didn't want to carry out his given task, but both men knew that he was bound in his duty.

One second passed. Then another. One more.

" _CANNONS_!"commander's cry broke the tense silence, startling everyone. Enjolras caught his breath, he'd expected this, he'd known the command to attack was coming, but the cannons? He tightened his grip on his rifle – brought with him from his family's home in Marseilles – and swallowed hard. If they hadn't stood a chance before, they were doomed now.

"QUICK AS YOU CAN, COME ON!" The officer continued his shout, "LOOK LIVELY!". Enjolras wanted to call for his friends to retreat, to run, to get away. They could still escape, they had a few moments yet. But his pride prevented him from giving voice to the words bubbling in his throat.

He glanced at his friends behind him, and gave a stern nod. They gathered themselves, rifles and pistols at the ready, and took their places beside him. The ominous rumble of the massive cannons grew as the Guardsmen hauled them across the cobblestone. The uniformed men formed ranks and began to advance.

"Far right first." Marius's genteel voice, roughened by lack of sleep and preceding events, reached his ears. Enjolras adjusted his grip on his rifle and cocked the hammer into the ready. The Guardsmen were still trying to form position – it wasn't everyday they faced rebel barricades in the city streets.

"Wait for it, wait for it!" The Commander's voice could be heard as he quickly gathered his troops. Enjolras waited no longer, the guardsmen had collected themselves.

"FIRE!" His voice whipped through the air, and suddenly smoke was blooming around him as he discharged his rifle and the crack of gunfire exploded in his ears as his comrades fired their own weapons in quick succession. Through the smoke he saw several front rank guardsmen fall, and he quickly aimed for the men preparing the cannons. He cocked his rifle and squeezed the trigger, he blinked quickly as the weapon discharged, not wanting to see men fall at his hand. Yes, it was out of necessity, but that didn't make him want to do it, he shoved down feelings of disgust, before they could consume his conscience, and threw his spent rifle down behind him to be reloaded, grasping the replacement Bossuet handed up to him. As he readied and fired it, he sent up a prayer of apology. He shut his eyes at each firing of his weapon.

"They're bringing in replacements!" Marius called, his voice shaking from either fear or adrenaline, possibly both, Enjolras couldn't tell. The rumbling grew louder and he heard the National Guard commander order the second cannon to be readied as their own firearms were reloaded and handed back to them.

"FIRE!" His voice cracked, it sounded weak in his ears, it betrayed his own fear. His friends didn't appear to notice, mercifully, and they obeyed his command once more. But this time, the Guardsmen were ready for them.

"FIRE!" The officer's voice cut through the smoke, and the students were suddenly ducking under an onslaught of opposing gunfire. Enjolras heard Marius hiss with pain as a bullet grazed his shoulder. From the corner of his eye he saw Prouvaire – he couldn't get used to the sight of the soft spoken poet holding a gun – reel at the recoil of his rifle. He trained his gaze ahead to the Guardsmen once more and sucked in a breath. Shit. They'd formed perfect ranks, their short lived advantage was over. Shots exploded around them once more at the distant call of the officer.

"Take cover, Boy!" He vaguely heard the old volunteer uselessly command Marius. He didn't know why this man was so concerned with Pontmercy's safety, and at that moment, he didn't care. What he did care about was Combeferre's panicked voice from behind him – Combeferre never panicked, it wasn't his nature, he was the Guide, their voice of reason.

"There's more men! There's more men, Enjolras!" His best friend cried from the other end of the barricade, alongside Bossuet. More gunfire. More smoke, the residue from the gunpowder stung his eyes.

"CANNONS READY?" The officer yelled, and Enjolras's blood ran cold, he'd forgotten about the cannons.

" _DOWN WITH YOUR HEADS, AND HUG THE WALL! ALL ON YOUR KNEES ALONG THE BARRICADE!"_ Enjolras cried.

"FIRE!" The thunderous boom of the cannons shook the ground beneath their feet, the barricade shuddered from impact, and debris scored the air. He couldn't see, where was everyone?! Wait, there were shouts behind him. He turned and leapt from his spot atop the mass of objects forming their barricade, he needed to find his friends. He stumbled through the dense smoke. A hand suddenly grasped his sleeve. Panic seized him momentarily, before glancing down and recognizing the long, slim fingers that gripped the fabric on his arm. Feuilly! But no sooner than he'd recognized the fan maker, had the older man released him and disappeared into the smoke. He felt himself hit the pavement suddenly, his face pressed against the gritty filth of the cobblestones. He spotted fallen men, none looked familiar. Retrieving his fallen rifle, he lurched to his feet and returned to the top of the barricade once more. After a brief moment of harsh deliberation, he trained his gaze on the captain of the gun, already readying his gun.

Combeferre, who had rushed to stand beside him, took notice and spoke quickly.

"Enjolras, he appears as if he could almost be your brother! He can't be more than twenty-five at most!" His gentle-natured friend observed.

"Yes, he is." Enjolras replied, already hating himself.

"Well then he is mine too. Let us not kill him." Combeferre pleaded.

"Let me alone, Combeferre! It must be done." Enjolras exclaimed, setting his jaw and training the rifle on the young artillery-man. A tear fell down his cheek, and he fired.

His second intentional execution. Another of his countrymen fallen.

His terrible deed managed to gain them several precious minutes, but even this short lived advantage did not serve them well once the soldiers found a replacement to man the cannon. Enjolras ducked as the cannon roared again, but it wasn't alone in its blast this time. The barricade jolted from the quick succession of multiple cannon shots, and two of the shots exploded through their fortress, sending debris and men flying. They all quickly scrambled for their weapons and rushed to the top of the barricade to defend themselves. And it was upon reaching the summit of their fortress that they were met with a wall of blue uniforms.

The Guardsmen had advanced, and were scaling the barricade from the opposite side, as Combeferre, Feuilly, Marius, Courfeyrac, all of them tried in vain to beat them back. Enjolras raised his rifle and fired two shots in succession from the double barrel before throwing the now useless rifle aside and drawing his sword. But there were too many, and the students were forced backwards off the barricade quickly. Comrades cried out in agony as the soldiers overtook them. He turned and jumped to the pavement once more, and turned just in time to dodge a blade as a soldier tried to take advantage of his turned back. Enjolras hit the man over the head with the hilt of his sword, and watched him fall unconscious. Suddenly there was a pair of hands grasping at his waistcoat, he looked down into the face of Bahorel. The poor man couldn't even stand – a sword had cut across the back of his knees, and he'd been stabbed in the shoulder. His face was contorted in agony, feathers were matted in his hair, and tears ran tracks through the grime on his face.

"Bahorel!" Enjolras grasped one of his arms as he tried to support himself against Enjolras's side. Enjolras held him tight and half dragged the poor man into the Musain, where he gently but hurriedly laid him near the bar, "Hold on, Mon Ami, we'll get you patched up! I'll return in a moment!" He murmured, briefly laying a calming hand on his normally cheerful friend's cheek. He then stood and returned outside, where he found Bossuet and Prouvaire desperately banging on a door, pleading for the family to let them in, to no avail, Enjolras saw the shuttered window above them pulled closed even tighter. He ran to them and pulled them by the backs of their shirt collars towards the entrance of the Musain, where Combeferre and Courfeyrac had already gathered along with Joly and the old volunteer.

"We need the door! We need to barricade the door!" Combeferre cried, and the old man slammed them closed, standing by to allow Marius, who was in the process of gathering debris from the street to barricade the door, inside. _Get inside you fool!_ Enjolras screamed in his head.

Suddenly, a shot rang out, Marius stiffened and fell. Enjolras lunged forward to restrain the old volunteer, but the man was already out the door. Enjolras gritted his teeth and set about ushering the others up the rickety stairs to the second floor. As he wheeled about to retrieve an axe from behind the bar, he suddenly remembered Bahorel. He glanced around, his searching gaze finally falling on his wounded friend. He knelt by his side, and placed two fingers beneath his ear. He was alive, barely, but he was still alive, though consciousness had long left him.

"Oh, mon ami, mon pauvre ami. Je suis tellement désolé."[Oh, my friend, my poor friend. I am so sorry.] Enjolras murmured, not wanting to leave him but fearing he had no other option. A heavy hand dropped on his shoulder.

"Enjolras, we need to get upstairs!" Bossuet's worried face peered down at him.

"Non, je ne peux pas le laisser ici Bossuet, il est toujours vivant!"[No, I cannot leave him here, Bossuet! He is still alive!] Enjolras whispered, staring up at the bald man, silently pleading with him to understand. Many thought that blond young man with the icy eyes possessed a heart of stone to match his stony persona, but this was not true; Enjolras cared deeply about his friends, about his Patria, about strangers on the street. He simply felt uncomfortable expressing his emotions the way Courfeyrac did.

"Enjolras…" Bossuet appeared to deliberate for a moment, before composing his features and kneeling on the other side of Bahorel, "I shall stay with him. You take the axe from behind the bar, you know the one, Madame Hucheloup keeps it near the wine cask on the left. Take that axe and cut away the stairs as you go up. Do not worry about me, my luck may not help me much, but it shall help you. Now go!"

"L'aigle….Bossuet…."

"Go, Enjolras, go now! We haven't much time!" Indeed, the bald man was right, the Guardsmen had turned their attentions to the door of the Musain, their rough barricade wouldn't hold the doors closed for long. Enjolras lurched to his feet and retrieved the axe, he ran to the staircase and raised the axe. But before he swung the blade at the wooden steps, he turned once more to gaze at Bossuet sitting on the floor cradling Bahorel in his lap. The bald man smiled sadly at him, "I'll make it out, my luck's stayed with me thus far, it can help me out for a few moments more."

"Thank you my friend, I won't forget this." Enjolras turned and brought the axe down on the old wood as the Guardsmen began to batter the doors using their rifles as clubs. Again and again Enjolras broke apart the steps, climbing as he went, as soon as he'd ascended a step, he turned and chopped it from the frame. This he continued until he was at the top and Combeferre and Courfeyrac were reaching down to pull him through the opening at the top.

"Where is Bossuet?" Combeferre questioned, peering down through the opening where the staircase had stood moments ago.

"He elected to stay with Bahorel. I could not convince him otherwise." Enjolras replied, "Where are Joly and Feuilly?" For indeed, he did not spot the young medical student nor the fan maker among them in the room where they'd so often gathered in high spirits.

"They were not downstairs with you?" Prouvaire queried with a furrowed brow.

"No, I thought they were here with you three, they were both among us all on the main floor!"

"Are we sure they did not take refuge in the wine cellar or the back room?" Courfeyrac interjected.

"Mon Amis, I believe we have bigger things to worry about presently." Combeferre interrupted, gazing cautiously out the window into the street below. A crash echoed up the remains of the staircase from the main floor, footsteps thundered into the building. Enjolras looked around wildly, searching for any sort of escape. How stupid he'd been! Sending his friends up to the second floor! There was no escape from here! They were trapped!

"Enjolras, I don't….I don't want…." Courfeyrac panicked, tears cutting tracks through the dirt and sweat on his face.

"I know, I won't let you." Enjolras hushed his friend, his mind calculating. He locked eyes with Combeferre, his dear childhood friend. Neither saw a way out. But Prouvaire did, that wonderful man, who noticed beauty in everything, noticed every detail. The other three turned at his low cry, and followed his pointing finger. Of course! That back window, it opened out over the alleyway, where storage crates were stacked high against the back wall of the Musain.

"Might we be able to climb down to the street on those crates?" Jehan inquired, his reddish hair matted to his forehead from sweat and dirt. Enjolras and Combeferre hurried to peer out the window at the crates below, minding where they stepped so as not to alert the Guardsmen below them, who could be heard searching the wine cellar and back room.

"They are not the sturdiest, it's risky. We could trap a leg or slip and fall….." Combeferre began, always the voice of reason.

"But it's better than awaiting the guardsmen to find us and slaughter us like sheep, Combeferre! Bah! What's the worst that could happen? A broken leg? Those heal. Come, Courfeyrac, you first!" Enjolras cast aside Combeferre's concern, and the latter did not argue as he knew his old friend was right. The two steadied Courfeyrac as he eased over the window frame. They ensured he had a tight grip on the window frame before releasing him and watching him find his balance on the uppermost crate and ease his body down the stack, finding small footholds here and there, before finally letting go and jumping the final few feet to the cobblestones below. He made a thumbs up to the men in the window above him, signaling the crates' sturdiness.

"Prouvaire, out you go." Enjolras urged, glancing behind him in the direction of the staircase. The Guardsmen were running out of places to look on the main floor, it wouldn't be long before they figured out that they were on the second floor. Combeferre once again helped Enjolras to steady Jehan as he climbed out the window, though Enjolras noticed in the process a deep wound on Prouvaire's lower leg that had gone unnoticed prior to that point. The poet found his footing on the crates quickly, and Courfeyrac stood by below to help him lest he lose his balance. Prouvaire descended the pile of boxes, only losing his balance once, when he tried to rest his weight solely on his injured leg. Mercifully, the soft spoken man bit back a pained cry, and Courfeyrac guided him the rest of the way down.

"Ils ne sont pas ici ! Nous avons cherché partout, Monsieur!" [They are not here! We have searched everywhere, Sir!] Voices floated up the stairwell. Combeferre stared fearfully at Enjolras as they listened to the conversation below.

"Imbéciles! Regardez juste devant votre nez! Ils ont cassé les escaliers. Ces écoliers sont cachent au deuxième étage!" [you fools! Look right in front of your noses! They have broken the stairs! Those schoolboys are hiding on the second floor!] The now familiar voice of the National Guard commander was heard in reply to the soldier who had spoken first. Combeferre's eyes were large as saucers as he stared at his friend. Enjolras, however, had assumed a cold and stony expression.

"Go, Combeferre, quickly now!" He urged in hushed tones.

"Enjolras, you're coming aren't you? I refuse to leave without you!" Combeferre declared in an equally quiet voice.

"Combeferre, go!" Enjolras boldly shoved his oldest friend out the window, maintaining a hold on him until he gained his footing on the crates, thus preventing him from remaining next to Enjolras. Enjolras refused to look down at Combeferre, for he knew his best friend would be piercing him with a betrayed and heartbroken gaze. He may be afraid of what he knew was coming, but he would remain in order to protect his friends. He could hear the guardsmen rapidly trying to pile anything on the main floor high enough that would allow them to gain foothold on to the second floor.

However, in turning his gaze away from Combeferre below him, And having long since released his hold on his shirt, Enjolras failed to notice his friend lunge upwards and make a wild grasp on to the window sill, his grip on the window frame the only thing preventing him from falling fifteen feet to the pavement below. He failed to realize that his oldest friend was not letting him sacrifice himself while they escaped. But he definitely noticed the sudden sharp tug on his ankle, the sudden added weight on his ankle pulling him backwards.

"Batárd! Vous ne meurent pas bien que nous échapper!" [Bastard! You do not die while we escape!] The furious voice of Combeferre reached his ears, and Enjolras almost wanted to chuckle, his friend rarely swore. But before he could, Enjolras lost his balance at another harsh tug at his ankle. He tipped backwards, out the open window, his breath frozen in his throat as he grasped wildly for anything to catch on to, anything to stop his fall. Combeferre had quickly released his hold when he saw Enjolras begin to topple backward towards him, he fell back on the uppermost crates and extended his arms, praying to catch his friend. Courfeyrac lunged forward, but he was not quick enough, and Enjolras landed heavily, half on top of Combeferre, the crates breaking the rest of his fall, but the noise created was much too loud for the quartet's liking. Courfeyrac quickly reached up and eased Enjolras's torso off of Combeferre, who sat up with a gasp, trying to catch his breath from where his friend's fall had knocked it clean out of him. Courfeyrac gently propped Enjolras in a half sitting position against the crates, where the latter stared at him momentarily in a daze before trying to rise with a groan of pain.

"Are you alright, Mon Ami? You gave me quite a fright just then!" Courfeyrac murmured in concern. Enjolras nodded once in affirmation and turned his face to Combeferre. His expression a cross between a dark thundercloud and relieved. Combeferre didn't give him the chance to be angry, he embraced him fiercely and muttered in his ear.

"You do not do that again, do you hear? When it is our time, we go together. You are my oldest friend, I cannot live without you, René"

"I apologize, Julian, however I beg to suggest that we remove ourselves from the immediate area, we did create quite a racket just now and it shall not take those soldiers long to figure out that it was us." Enjolras replied, still winded from his fall.

"Where may we go? The streets are swarmed with National Guard and Police Spies! I hate to say, but it's quite obvious we have been involved in the fighting." Prouvaire spoke up for the first time, his voice pained and quiet, from where he leaned against the wall of the apartment building directly opposite this back wall of the Musain, balanced on one leg. Combeferre released Enjolras and went to the shy poet immediately upon seeing his agonized expression, the wound on his leg was deep, and he'd lost a fair amount of blood. Combeferre trained his eye on the wound briefly, though he did not study medicine as did Joly, he knew some emergency first aid from his and Enjolras's rough and tumble days of adolescence.

"This is neither the time nor the place to treat this, but we must keep it as clean as possible and prevent more blood loss, if for no other reason than to prevent the guardsmen from being able to follow us clear as day!" Combeferre paused and looked around at the other three, Enjolras was the only one who still had his cravat, or rather, the remains of his cravat, "Enjolras, may I borrow your cravat? I need to cover this wound quickly."

Enjolras was already untying the loosened knot over his breastbone and handing the strip of fabric to his friend, who in turn quickly fashioned a bandage from it and bound Prouvaire's lower leg in the navy cloth. This soon complete, Combeferre stood and helped support Prouvaire by wrapping an arm around the poet's torso to hold him up.

"Where do we go from here? We cannot stay here like sitting ducks and wait for the Guard to find us!" Prouvaire spoke through gritted teeth and a clenched jaw. Enjolras looked at him in concern, he wouldn't be able to move very fast, one of them would have to carry him over their shoulders.

"I know a place, it's not far from here. It's one of Gav – " Courfeyrac spoke up, but then broke off to choke back a sob at the mention of the little gamin's name before continuing, "it's one of Gavroche's little hideaways, it should fit us all, not comfortably, but it will have to do until the Guard and police activity dies down a bit."

"Take us there, we need to get out of the street, we cannot waste any more time, I'm amazed those Guardsmen have not made it to the second floor yet." Enjolras replied tersely with a wary glance at the window above them. He looked at Jehan, "I apologize profusely Mon Ami, but I am going to have to carry you, we must clear out of here and you cannot move quickly with your leg."

Prouvaire looked at him aghast, but did not argue as Enjolras stooped low and balanced the poet over his shoulders. Courfeyrac glanced up at the window, but stayed silent as he motioned for Enjolras and Combeferre to follow him. The three young men crept through the alley, to the front of the Musain, and all four averted their eyes at the carnage that lay before them. Courfeyrac jerked his head at a narrow street branching off from the Place du Pont Saint Michel. They continued down this narrow street, which could hardly be counted a street as their shoulders brushed the sides of the neighboring buildings on either side of this "street". They reached the end, which let out on a normally busy street which they were all too weary to recall the name of at that very moment. This street was lined with shops and often choked with fiacres and carriages of bourgeois families on their daily outings. But now the street was empty, which was unusual, with it being mid-afternoon - normally one of the most hectic times of the day to be out and about - which they attributed to the close proximity of the fighting to this popular marketplace.

Courfeyrac led them along the side of the street, keeping to the few shadows left over from the night, until they reached a baker's shop, which was locked tight. Courfeyrac peered around the corner of this bakery, down yet another alleyway, though this was was a far cry from the dank alleys of the Saint Michel. Courfeyrac approached one of the bordering walls of this alley, and squinted in the shadows as he felt along the stone for a gap. There! An old wooden sign had been hastily thrust in front of it, but there was the entrance to one of little Gavroche's numerous hideaways throughout the streets of Paris. Enjolras stooped and allowed Prouvaire to slide off his shoulders, and crouched to follow Courfeyrac into the dim gap between buildings. The rough stone scratched at his clothes and his shoulders, this little hideaway definitely was not meant for grown men! The others followed behind him and Courfeyrac, silent except for once when Prouvaire jostled his leg in the tight space and let out a choked cry. Combeferre quickly hushed the man. Courfeyrac stopped ahead of them, and Enjolras peeked around the shorter man's shoulder. He breathed a sigh of relief, in front of his friend the tight space opened up and they could stand comfortably.

It vaguely resembled a little house, in one corner a pile of ragged blankets, one of which suspiciously resembled a lady's shawl, lay arranged atop a scant layer of straw. A wooden pail sat nearby, half full of musty water, and opposite what was clearly a bed, a small crate lay overturned. This crate Courfeyrac lifted, and from underneath the box he drew out a dented, blackened tin mug and a ladle in similar condition. These objects he handled almost reverently as he looked up at Enjolras.

"He has – had – spots like this all over the city, they're safe from the police, they're all hidden in plain view like this as well, easy to find if you know where to search." The dark haired student explained, "Let's get Jehan on the bed, there's water in that pail. It's a few days old but it's safe to drink. Here." He passed the mug and the ladle to Enjolras.

The three managed to move Prouvaire into a comfortable position on the bed, and Combeferre set about cleaning the wound as best he could with water from the pail, and then bound it up once again with Enjolras's cravat. A sudden wave of exhaustion caused Enjolras to sway, and he thrust an arm out against the wall of the Gamin's petit maison [little house]. This did not go unnoticed by Combeferre. Of course it didn't, the bespectacled man often seemed to know him more than he he knew himself.

"Enjolras, rest. We should all drink some water and rest. Prouvaire, might you be able to –" Enjolras was shaking his head before Combeferre even finished speaking.

"Jehan keeps the bed, I agree we need to rest, but I shall be perfectly fine right here. He need not have to share the blankets." Enjolras removed his red waistcoat, folded it, and lowered his weary body to the ground, placing the jacket beneath his head. At this moment, even lying on the cold, hard cobblestones felt like lying in the softest mattress. Combeferre looked at his friend as he closed his eyes, in both pity and concern. He knew that the stony front the Enjolras constantly wore was only a front, and he worried of when the time would come that his brother – in almost every sense of the word except for blood – would be hit by the true gravity of their failure, and the realization that all of their friends minus Prouvaire and Courfeyrac were seemingly dead.

Enjolras heard Combeferre and Courfeyrac both lay themselves on the pavement soon after he'd closed his eyes. All three of them lay close to Prouvaire and the makeshift bed, unconsciously seeking comfort in each others' presence. He expelled a long breath and let his bones relax, and let the sweet release of sleep overcome him.

For now, they were safe, or as safe as fugitive revolutionaries could be.


	2. Chapter 2

**Here's Chapter Two! It took me two days to write this, and me staying up until 3 in the morning last night, so I hope y'all like it! :) And as a side note, I forgot to stick this in the AN at the beginning of Chapter 1, but this story is based off of both the book and the 2012 film, The book I am currently reading, but I've watched the movie more times than I care to count and I love it every time! Please Enjoy and R &R! Constructive criticism is more than welcome, but no hate please! Thank you!**

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Enjolras jolted awake, choking back a cry of alarm. He glanced about wildly, until his eyes settled on the concerned face of Combeferre directly in front of him. Combeferre's hand was half extended towards him, and he realized that this was what had awoken him; Combeferre had drawn his hand back at Enjolras's violent start. A shudder racked the blond's body from his position by the end of the bed where Prouvaire was resting. A sweeping gaze around the petit maison [little house] assured him that the other two were still asleep. It was not quite night yet, the light around them wavered at that indecisive seeming hour of twilight, as if the Heavens could not decide whether they wanted to bring Night about or allow the Day to remain.

"René, look at me," Combeferre's steady voice reached his ears, and he returned his gaze to Combeferre. His friend had removed his spectacles, and his normally close cropped brown hair was disheveled.

"I'm fine 'Ferre." Enjolras sighed, "You startled me, that's all."

"Enjolras…" Julian sighed, trailing off as Enjolras leveled him with a stony glare.

"Julian, I'm fine. I am unused to sleeping out-of-doors, I'm only a bit on edge."

Mercifully, his friend let the subject drop. They both looked over at Courfeyrac, who was curled into a tight ball near Prouvaire's head. He was asleep, but it wasn't a restful slumber, they could both tell. Their friend, affectionately known to the rest of Les Amis de l'ABC as the center of their little group, the glue, wore a frightened scowl, his wide set eyes screwed shut. He rested his head directly on the cobblestones, having lost his waistcoat at the barricade. Prouvaire lay sprawled on his back on the bed, asleep. Enjolras squinted through the growing darkness and rose to check on the gentle natured man. He knew nothing of medicine, as a child he'd always let Combeferre take over treating any injuries brought about by their rough housing. Nevertheless, he knelt at Jehan's side and gently shook him awake. The poet blinked bleary blue eyes at him as he came to with Enjolras gently supporting his head.

"'Jolras?" He mumbled, as Enjolras helped him into a sitting position.

"Easy Mon Ami, you need to drink something. Combeferre, could you wake Courfeyrac?"

Combeferre did, and in a moment the younger man was sitting up and gazing at him, his mess of dark curls flattened to his head on one side. Enjolras nodded to the pail sitting nearby.

"Courfeyrac, do you know where Gavroche fetched water from?" He purposefully ignored the way his friend shuddered at the mention of that brave little gamin. He knew that Courfeyrac had practically adopted Gavroche as a younger brother, and had truly seen him as such.

"Yes, he fetched it from la fontaine dans le Jardin du Luxembourg, at night." [the fountain in the Luxembourg Gardens] Courfeyrac replied, "he claimed that he never trusted fetching it from the well in Saint Michel, I never quite understood why."

"No matter, but Le Jardin is quite a walk from here, on the other side of Saint Michel. Is there anywhere closer?"

Courfeyrac nodded, before voicing his affirmative upon realizing that it had grown too dark to see each other clearly, "I'm fairly certain that there's a well in the marketplace, once it's darker I shall go search for it."

"But there is the question as to your appearance." Combeferre pointed out, "How are you going to explain the condition of your clothes? There's blood on them, that alone will raise suspicion, if not for that you could pass for a poor citizen."

"Assuming there's anyone about." Courfeyrac argued, "Listen, there's been very little activity out in the Marketplace today, we would have been woken if there had been, it's easy to hear street noise from here."

"Courfeyrac! Whether or not there are civilians about, there will be gendarmes and National Guardsmen all over the city searching for insurgents. You can't go." Combeferre retorted.

"Combef—"

" _Enough_!" Enjolras's quiet voice cut between the two of them like a whiplash, effectively silencing both. He turned his eyes from Jehan and froze both men in their place with a stony glare. He continued after ensuring he had their attention.

"We need water. The safest time to get it is under darkness. Since neither of you can reach agreement, I shall go." This was met with vehement protest, the biggest protest unexpectedly coming from Prouvaire, who he'd assumed to be in too much pain to follow their debate.

"Enjolras, no! It's risky enough for us – them –" Jehan paused to correct himself, knowing full well he wouldn't be moving about unassisted for quite some time, and taking the moment to grit his teeth against a fresh jolt of pain plunging through his leg, " – to go out there even at night. But they'll be looking for you specifically Mon Ami, as far as we know you're the only barricade leader who hasn't been killed or captured; we know that –" another pause to hiss in pain, "—we know that Charles Jeanne was captured late last night when his barricade was taken. After him, you are the most well known of all of us, you're the biggest target, to them you are the biggest threat." Prouvaire stopped speaking then and fell back on the straw pallet, what little strength he'd saved up in his slumber quickly exhausted by his protest.

"Jehan is right, René, you are the one they'll be looking for the most. It's blatantly obvious that they know we have escaped by now. We were the last barricade, nearly the entire Guard had already been dispatched to deal with us, they'll put off cleaning up for as long as possible – or put the working class people to the task – and focus all of their attention on finding us. I agree we need water, but please, let's be rational about this." Combeferre pleaded. Suddenly he started, and glanced around the small space. When next he spoke, his voice was strangled.

"Where is Courfeyrac?"

Enjolras's stony face remained impassive as he gazed about with searching eyes. Only Combeferre, who knew him so well, was able to spot the sudden anxiety that flared up in his friend's face.

"Batárd!" The blond man swore suddenly, causing Jehan to jump at the sudden raised volume of his voice. Courfeyrac had clearly taken the other students' argument as an opportunity to steal away with the pail. Enjolras stood abruptly, fisting his fingers in his tangled and matted hair. He paced the cramped "quarters" like a caged lion, every line of his body taught with tension. Combeferre could only stand by and stare, as could Prouvaire, though the latter did so with glazed eyes. Combeferre spared the poet a glance; his biggest fear was infection setting in, something which was almost unavoidable unless they were somehow able to procure proper medical care. As he turned his eyes back to Enjolras, who continued to pace, he noticed that his friend was walking with a slight limp. But he couldn't be sure, the only light by this point was from weak and watery moonlight that shone down through the narrow space between buildings. It made for very poor light, but he was thankful that the moon was out at all. Still, if his friend was limping, he was hurt, no matter how adept he was at hiding it. Even as children, Enjolras would sooner hobble home on a broken ankle than admit to Combeferre that he was in pain.

So adept was he at hiding discomfort, that Combeferre did not doubt at all that Enjolras himself had likely forgotten he was hurt, or maybe he never knew at all; earlier in the day they'd all been running off so much adrenaline that none of them had noticed their injuries – excepting Prouvaire of course – and then once they'd reached this petit maison, they'd all been too exhausted to do much more than tend to Prouvaire and fall asleep. Combeferre himself was only just now beginning to notice that what he'd thought to be merely a shallow laceration on his arm was in actuality a deeper cut presumably caused by a glancing blow from a sword. Julian clucked his tongue as he examined his wound, it had stopped bleeding some time ago, but was far from clean. He'd have to scrub the dried blood from it and clean it in the morning. Combeferre turned his attention once more to the shadowy form of Enjolras looming in the dark as the tall young man began muttering under his breath. Combeferre strained to understand what he was saying.

"—Something so rash! Idiot! He's almost as tedious to deal with as Grantaire of all people! I'll have half a mind to box his ears myself when he returns if the damn police do not catch him first!" Combeferre barely made out the muttered rant, but at the mention of Grantaire's name he straightened in sudden realization. Enjolras noticed this amid his pacing, and turned to him with his brow furrowed in an unasked question.

"Enjolras, did you see Grantaire anywhere at the barricade?"

Enjolras scoffed at the cynic's name, but then paused in thought, and voiced his answer, "Non, Maintenant que vous le dites, je ne voyais pas lui après qu'il s'est évanoui sur la barricade hier soir." [No, now that you mention it, I did not see him after he passed out on the barricade yesterday evening.]

"He was not there this morning when the fighting began. Nor was he in the Musain. At least, I did not notice him amid the chaos, but it's quite likely he awoke and moved into the café, took advantage of the alcohol sitting unguarded and passed out again in there. Either that or he managed to wander away from the barricade completely, he's managed to get quite far on drunken wanderings before!"

"The only thing that wine cask cares about is his own self preservation. No, he doesn't even care about that, he's incapable of caring about anything! I doubt the National Guard would have taken an unconscious drunkard who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time into custody." Enjolras spat bitterly, "For his own sake I hope he wandered away, if we stumble across him at some point then that's one thing, but do not expect me to go seeking him out."

"He cares Enjolras, he just isn't capable of showing it like the rest of us." Combeferre replied gently, refusing to refer to the cynic in past-tense when he could still be very much alive, "If he was unconscious in the café and the Guards came across him, you are right, I highly doubt they would have placed much importance in him given how intent they were on finding us. I do not think he would have left the barricade completely, given how he follows you around."

"Not that I asked him to stand in as my shadow." Enjolras sighed in resignation, "I hope he's safe, but I will not go out actively searching for him. If he's as strangely attached to me as you say, then he'll find us soon enough. Once things appear to be safer out in the streets, I aim to at least attempt to find Joly, Feuilly, Bossuet and Bahorel."

"René…..the chances aren't high that they're out there." Combeferre reasoned in a broken tone, he'd been as close with them as Enjolras, who, in turn, wheeled about and despite the poor light, Julian easily read the desperation on his friend's face. This was exceedingly rare, for Enjolras to show vulnerable emotion plainly on his face, for it was uncommon for him to even crack a smile.

"I _know_ that Julian, I – I can't abide just sitting here not knowing where they are or if they're okay or if they're even alive! I have to _know_!" Enjolras hated himself at that moment, he could feel his cool demeanor cracked under the stress and events of the past few days, he felt as though his heart, so carefully guarded and shielded from vulnerable emotions had been laid out on his breast for everyone to read his every emotion. And he hated it, he hated feeling exposed like this, though he knew Combeferre would be the last person to judge him for it. Combeferre, Bless him, did not intrude on the mental war Enjolras was having presently, he stayed back and gazed at him with sympathy as he waited for his friend to gain control of himself once more, knowing it wouldn't take long for that iron fist Enjolras kept on his emotions to close once more. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Enjolras took a shuddering breath and met Combeferre's eyes. Thankfully, Prouvaire had fallen asleep once more by this point.

"René, We will find them. I promise you, we will find out what has happened to them. But we cannot do so until we have regained our strength and the authorities have stopped hunting for us so intently." Combeferre comforted, always the voice of reason, "Now, let's sit and wait for Courfeyrac to return. To be frank, I'm glad he insisted on going for water. He was with the little lad so often that he was practically apprenticed in learning the art of being a gamin! We'll take turns sleeping so that one of us is awake when he returns." Combeferre took this moment to step forward and lay a reassuring hand on Enjolras's shoulder. He knew Enjolras wasn't much one for physical contact, but Combeferre was the only one who could touch him without him stiffening in apprehension. His father, who Enjolras had no contact with other than for a monthly allowance sent by post, was not a kind man, cool and distant and quick and harsh in his punishments, and Enjolras's dislike of being touched was simply a leftover burden from childhood. He let his hand drop after just a moment, Enjolras, likely due to the overwhelming stress he was undoubtedly feeling, had unconsciously tensed under his hand.

"Mon Ami, please rest. You need it, I'll wait up for Courfeyrac, he should not be much longer. I promise I'll wake you immediately should the need arise."

Enjolras didn't argue, simply moved past Combeferre and reclaiming his spot on the cool stones at the foot of the bed. As he lay down, he glanced up and met Combeferre's gaze, his eyes shining dimly in the dark, before resting his head on his waistcoat and closing his eyes, quickly falling asleep despite the anxiety coursing through his veins.

Combeferre watched him sleep for several minutes, it was so rare to see him relaxed, without a furrowed brow or concentrated frown. Not that he was fully relaxed even in sleep at this moment, but it was close enough, and for that Julian was glad. He checked on Prouvaire once more, then turned and placed himself on the wooden crate opposite their now-designated sleeping area, using it as a chair rather than sitting on the unforgiving cobblestones. He rested his chin on his fist and flashed his gaze about their little sanctuary once more before training his stare on the entrance; he'd have to discuss with Courfeyrac about the possibility of procuring a candle or two for use at night if they planned to stay here very long. He did not plan on waking Enjolras unless the need absolutely arose, he would stay awake all night for Courfeyrac. This conclusion reached, he arranged his body into a more comfortable position and settled down for his wait.

Courfeyrac ducked in and out of the shadows along the marketplace, listening intently before turning every corner. He'd found the well of the marketplace easily, only to discover it closed off and padlocked. Irritation had coursed through him; who on _Earth_ would padlock a _well_?

Nonetheless, he'd reset his course and was currently walking closer to the poorer part of this side of the Seine, he was not quite to Saint Michel yet, as he could hear the river nearby, it couldn't lay more than a street or so to his left. He had qualms about crossing the bridge to search for another well, there was no cover on the Pont-au-Change. More worrisome, the Prefecture of Police lay within view of the bridge on the other side. But they needed fresh water, and the sooner he returned to the petit maison, hopefully the less cross his friends would be with him. So he adjusted his course once more, though his tired legs ached in mild protest - he'd been walking for quite some time, and sleeping on pavement had not helped matters – and cut across to the next street over. He spotted the bridge some distance up ahead, and saw where an outlet from the underground sewers drained into the river. Strangely enough, he thought he heard a cry of relief from down in that outlet. He didn't pause to check, and instead turned back to the street from whence he'd come to cross around the drain and reach the bridge. The smell was atrocious, and he screwed his nose. But just as he was about to step out into the open, he happened to glance to his left and his blood ran cold, his heart jumped into his throat.

A police officer stood almost directly beside him, in full uniform, at the top of a set of steps that led down into the muck below. Courfeyrac stopped, and crouched down in the shadows, not daring to step out and let himself be discovered. Mercifully, the officer's back was to him, but Courfeyrac could not look away, he peeked around the corner of the apartment he hid behind. Something about the man's build seemed eerily familiar, and his silver flecked hair attempted to stir a recent memory. But he could not place where he'd seen him before. What was he waiting for, here of all places?

A commotion from down in the sewer muck, out of Courfeyrac's line of sight, drew his attention. So, he'd indeed heard a cry earlier. He heard the rusty gate at the sewer drain burst open, and heard what sounded like a person collapsing against the wall. He listened closely, and the voice that floated up sent a shock deep into his bones.

"It's you, Javert. I knew you wouldn't wait too long, a faithful servant at his post once more." A slight pause came amid the breathless and alarmed voice and very familiar voice, "This man's done no wrong,he needs a doctor's care!"

It was the voice of that old volunteer, who'd appeared amid the barricade clad in National Guard uniform, the one who'd held such concern for Marius's safety. Fauchelevent, he'd been called. Courfeyrac could have sworn he'd been killed alongside Marius in the final moments of the battle! Who was the man he'd spoken of? And Javert! This had been the police spy who'd infiltrated their barricade! He looked different now, clad in his uniform.

' _Good evening, dear Inspector! Lovely evening My Dear! I know this man, my friends, his name's Inspector Javert!_ ' The song like voice of Gavroche sounded in his head, the little gamin had been the one to uncover Javert's guise. He'd seemed imposing enough under his disguise, but now every part of him almost screamed danger. But he'd been executed, at the barricade, Monsieur Fauchelevent had seen to that! They'd all heard the sharp report of the pistol given to him by Gavroche! Clearly, the old man had allowed him to escape, and fired the pistol only to make the students think he'd shot him. Courfeyrac pushed down a feeling of betrayal, as the deep, intimidating baritone of the Inspector burst forth.

"I warned you I would not give in! I won't be swayed!" Courfeyrac could clearly see the gleaming pistol the man held at his side. Warned him? Courfeyrac listened closer.

"Another hour yet! Then I'm yours, and all our debts are _paid_!" The voice of Fauchelevent pleaded. Debts? How did these two know each other, and what had transpired between them? Fauchelevent simply did not strike him as a police spy, and on top of that, he'd helped them at the barricade!

"The Man of Mercy comes again, and talks of justice!" The mocking tone of Javert reached his ears, adding to Courfeyrac's confusion.

"Come! Time is running short!" Fauchelevent sounded irritated now, "Look down, Javert! He's standing in his grave!"

Courfeyrac had unconsciously leaned out further into the narrow alley, and from here he witnessed the most fantastic feat! The old man, who had to be at least sixty, scaling the wall to reach the steps of the alley, with a limp form draped over his shoulders! That of a man! How did this man possess such strength?! It was an impossible feat for even a fit young man, let alone an old, tired one! Both him and the unconscious form were covered head to toe in human waste, and Courfeyrac shuddered on their behalf. Fauchelevent stood face to face with the Inspector, who'd turned his body to return the older man's stare, and at this Courfeyrac realized his error and ducked back into the shadow of his hiding place. Fauchelevent moved past Javert, who appeared to be made numb by this feat of the old man's strength, though he seemed unsurprised. But as Fauchelevent moved forward once more, the chilling voice of Javert stopped him in his tracks, and Courfeyrac watched in horror as the Inspector drew back the hammer on his pistol and aimed it at the old man.

"One more step and you die, _24601_." Javert stared disdainfully at Fauchelevent, who slowly turned to return his stare. Courfeyrac could not see Fauchelevent's face, though he saw Javert's hand waver on his pistol. After a long moment, Courfeyrac did not see what passed between the two, Fauchelevent turned away and resumed his path that carried him closer to Courfeyrac's hiding spot. He witnessed Javert appear to tremble in his place as he looked after Fauchelevent with an astounded expression, before looking down at the gun in his hand. Courfeyrac looked away, and peered after Fauchelevent as the man passed where he crouched in shadow, not noticing him. The younger man deliberated for a moment, before stealing after the old man, keeping to the shadows to prevent Javert's stare from landing on him.

Courfeyrac trailed him for several streets, waiting until they were certainly out of earshot of Javert, and then called out.

"Monsieur!"

Fauchelevent froze up ahead, tension lining his form as he looked about, searching for the voice that had called him. Courfeyrac removed himself from the shadows and strode towards him, "Monsieur Fauchelevent!"

The man turned around, and to say he was astonished was an understatement. Courfeyrac stopped before him, and set his pail down beside him. He was slightly breathless, but he looked up at the tall man with pleading eyes. He saw the moment Fauchelevent recognized him, and the old man let out a sigh of relief.

"Young man, how are you here?" Courfeyrac could tell from his words that the older man had been convinced that he and the form draped over his back had been the only survivors of the chaos fourteen hours before. Had it only been fourteen hours?

"We escaped, through a window on the second floor of the café. Myself and a few others, but Bahorel and the others…." He replied, trailing off as he mentioned his friends. He turned his attention to the man that Fauchelevent carried on his shoulders. Fauchelevent noticed his distraction, and brought a crumpled paper out from his pocket, remarkably unspoiled by the muck from the sewers.

"Marius here, he wrote his grandfather's address on a letter which he had delivered to my home by a little gamin boy, it was meant for my daughter, but I received it and travelled to the barricade to ensure his safety. Might you be able to tell me where this address lies?"

It was Courfeyrac's turn to be astonished, he'd been certain that Marius had been killed by the shot they'd all witnessed pierce his torso. And this was his Cosette's father! He choked on his own breath as he reached forward tentatively towards Marius. He caught himself at the last second, and turned his face to Fauchelevent.

"I know where his grandfather's home is. I must warn you though, the two have not been on good terms with each other over the last few years. I can take you there if you wish."

"I am sure his grandfather will be able to put aside any grudges when he sees his grandson. Monsieur, I would be most grateful." Fauchelevent adjusted his grip on the young man.

"My friends call me Courfeyrac, and after what you have done for us all, I insist you do the same Monsieur." Courfeyrac introduced himself as they began walking.

"Very well, Courfeyrac. Might I inquire as to where you escaped to, along with your friends? To be quite honest I thought the entire barricade overtaken." Fauchelevent questioned, with in furtive glance behind them to ensure that they were not being followed. Javert, for all his frightening intimidation, seemed to have simply disappeared.

"We've taken up refuge in a hideaway that was used quite often by Gavroche, near the Rue de Plume." Courfeyrac could not hide the grief in his voice as he spoke his surrogate brother's name. Fauchelevent heard this, how could he not, and glanced at him in sympathy. The too recent memory of the young man before him screaming desperately for the little gamin who had ducked into the street between the barricade and the National Guard, and having to be physically restrained by four of his friends, including the charismatic leader and a bespectacled student. And then the sight of him collapsed on the ground, cradling the little boy's body and sobbing in broken grief, Fauchelevent did not think he would ever forget that horrible scene.

"You cannot know how very sorry I am." He spoke softly.

"Please, Monsieur, I cannot think of him right now, please forgive me." Courfeyrac pleaded softly.

"I apologize, it is me who must beg your forgiveness, I should not have brought the subject up." Fauchelevent instantly regretted his words. The two were silent for a time as they walked. Courfeyrac eyed the limp form of his dear friend swaying on Fauchelevent's shoulders in time to the old man's steps. He knew he'd been away from his friends for far longer than it would have taken to simply fetch water, but he knew they would understand once he returned with the news of his discovery.

"Will he be okay, Monsieur?" Courfeyrac spoke up, sounding like a little boy.

"I pray he will be, I regret having to take him through the sewers, he's bound to get an infection from it, but there was no other means of escape."

"His grandfather is quite well off, he'll hopefully send for a doctor immediately. We're almost there." By this point they had crossed the Pont Notre Dame, and they were traveling through an increasingly nicer part of the city. Several minutes more, and Courfeyrac turned down a wide, clean swept street, with evenly spaced street lamps, which had all been long extinguished for the night. A large, austere mansion stood towards the end of the street, and it was towards this home that Courfeyrac directed his steps. He almost chuckled to himself at the manner they were sure to be received in, given the state of their appearances. As Fauchelevent appeared alongside him, he raised his fist and let a volley of knocks pound on the door. Moments later, the two spotted the dim light of a candle being lit on the second floor, and Courfeyrac pounded on the door again. Suddenly the door was wrenched open from the inside, and they came face to face with an aging woman who appeared to be in her fifties, a dressing gown pulled close over her nightclothes and a candle in her hand. Her face was shocked and slightly afraid as she stared at the two filthy men and the limp form upon the elder's back.

"Mademoiselle Gillenormand? My name is Antoine de Courfeyrac, I am a close friend of Marius." Courfeyrac hastily introduced himself.

"Monsieur, are you aware as to what time it is? To call upon a home at this hour! Aside from this, Marius does not reside here, he has not for several years. I apologize." The woman began to close the door with a slightly irritated expression. Courfeyrac stuck his foot in the door frame before the door could close.

"Mademoiselle, I have not come to call upon anyone, I am well aware as to the late hour and I pray you'll accept my sincerest apology for that. Monsieur Fauchelevent and myself have come to beg your assistance. We have come from one of the barricades across the river, Marius has been shot, he needs prompt medical attention. Monsieur Fauchelevent had to escape through the sewer with him. I apologize for our condition, but Marius is in a bad way you see, he requested that he be brought here if he was…you know. We brought him here in the hope that you can help him."

Fauchelevent had to give it to the young man, he spoke with such a charming and charismatic air that sounded years older than the boy was. The woman suddenly recognized Marius draped over his shoulders and gasped loudly, she dropped her candle, where it extinguished itself upon hitting the floor.

"Marius, oh, Marius, please, Messieurs, come in, come in. I shall fetch his grandfather." She exclaimed, leaving the door open and disappearing into the mansion. The two men stepped hesitantly into the foyer, Courfeyrac gently closing the door behind them. Raised voices floated down the grand staircase before them, and suddenly an ancient old man, far older than Fauchelevent, was racing down the stairs.

"Marius! My boy, you foolish, foolish boy! Oh, Bless you Messieurs, for bringing him here. Please, bring him here!" This old man moved with the air of a young man, and he certainly did not appear to be the man that Marius had described on one occasion, who he'd claimed to have scorned the very existence of his grandson. The two men followed Monsieur Gillenormand wordlessly up the stairs and into what Courfeyrac assumed had been Marius's childhood bedroom, judging from the wooden rocking horse in the corner. Fauchelevent stooped and laid the boy on the bed, before straightening and bowing politely to Gillenormand.

"Monsieur, I cannot thank you enough."

"Monsieur, it is I who must thank you, you have brought my grandson home in this time of need. It is true that we have not been on good terms for quite some time, but I care a great deal for him." The elderly man broke off suddenly, and shouted harshly, "Daughter, have you not sent Nicolette to fetch the doctor? Send her away at once and fetch a basin of hot water and rags." He turned once more to the two filth covered men.

"Messieurs, please, allow me to extend my highest hospitality to you both, you both are welcome here for as long as you need. There is a washroom three doors down this hall to the right, please feel free to wash up and discard your attire. I'll have a housekeeper bring up clean clothes and another basin of hot water and soap."

"My sincerest thanks, Monsieur. We shall not take up too much of your time." Courfeyrac spoke up, "I must return to my friends, I am already late. Might I be able to fill my pail with fresh water to take back to my friends?" He held up the wooden bucket.

Monsieur looked at him aghast, "Young Man, you have come from the barricades, correct? You are a friend of Marius?"

"Yes Monsieur, myself and three other friends were able to get away at the last moment." Courfeyrac spoke guardedly, wanting to trust this man, but wary of him. Fauchelevent had left the room to wash up.

"Son, I may not have supported the Revolution, but I can see that you and my grandson feel so strongly for this cause. You do not have to fear me. My daughter said your name is de Courfeyrac? I met man of the same name quite a few years ago, at a soireé."

"That would have been my father, Monsieur. I simply go by Courfeyrac. Or Antoine, if you prefer that. I am a law student at the same university Marius attended, as are most of our friends."

"Well Antoine, go wash up. And please know, any friends of Marius are welcome here, for as long as you need, please extend this offer to your other friends."

"Thank you, Monsieur. We are currently hidden away from the authorities, and we have one who is unable to walk on his own. I will certainly tell them of your offer, and as soon as our other friend can walk, we will make our way here. We are not exactly in lodging at the moment."

"Nonsense! Your friend who is unable to walk, he is wounded yes? I shall send my fiacre to fetch you all."

"Monsieur, you have been too kind, but we are Wanted men, the authorities are searching quite intently for us. I cannot burden you with housing us."

"Ah, but what better hiding place than the estate of an old gentleman? Go wash up and I shall send my fiacre around to the front to collect you and take you to fetch your friends."

Courfeyrac bowed deeply, and left the room.

After several long hours of waiting, Combeferre had dozed off. Sudden footsteps rushing towards their hiding place caused his eyes to fly open, and he sat up in alarm.

"Enjolras!" He hissed urgently, and the blond man was awake instantly in the first grey threads of light from the coming dawn. They both stared anxiously at the entrance, and a moment later Courfeyrac burst into the small space. Enjolras was upon him instantly.

"Where have you _BEEN_?" He cried, seizing the younger man by the lapels of his coat. Instantly he noticed that Courfeyrac was vastly cleaner, his hair combed and clean, and he was clad in new clothes, "Where did you get these clothes?"


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N: Oh my gosh, this chapter is FINALLY complete! It's ended up being twenty pages on Microsoft Word! I just couldn't find a good place to tie it off! Anyway, here is Chapter Three! Thank you so much to my Guest Reviewer who left such a kind review! And I agree, French is such a confusing language! I'm actually trying to learn it at the moment! I'm warning you all now, there is a LOT of dialogue in this chapter, but it's hopefully not overwhelming. Anyways, PLEASE enjoy, and please leave Reviews, I'd love to hear what you all think of this so far! Thank you so much to everyone who has read this story and to the users who have added it to their follow alerts! As a side note, I tried to do some research as to how bathrooms would be laid out in the 1830s in France, but didn't have much luck other than that wash basins of wearily households were often made of copper, and the maids were responsible for taking heated water from the kitchen to the washroom. Thank you and God Bless, and don't forget to leave reviews! Xoxo**_

The younger man grinned – he was the first one out of all of them to smile since before the barricade – and began speaking, despite still being held tightly by his coat by Enjolras.

"Marius lives, as does the old volunteer. I ran into them, Marius is wounded badly but we took him to his grandfather's estate, he's being cared for as I speak. His grandfather has extended invitation to us all to lodge in his home until we are well. He has offered a place to bathe, clean clothes, food, and beds for us all. He sent me here in his fiacre to collect you all. He would not take no for an answer."

"Are you an idiot? We will be sitting ducks if we go there! Marius's grandfather has made it no secret of how opposed he is to our cause. All bourgeois are the same, they fear a republic because they fear they will lose their wealth. I will not, it's not safe." Enjolras exploded, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

Combeferre had remained silent up to this point, but now he spoke up, "Enjolras, hear him out. If Monsieur Gillenormand is offering sanctuary, I am sure he is serious. He's an old man, not a turn coat. And besides, if he decided to call the authorities on us, he would have to turn Marius over as well, and I don't think he's willing to do that."

"And all of that aside, Prouvaire needs help, Enjolras! Yes, Combeferre knows a few things, but he has nothing to treat him with except water and your cravat. That wound is deep, and even I can tell that he's already starting to show signs of infection! The night was cool, yet he's sweating! Monsieur Gillenormand has a doctor at his estate at this very moment seeing to Marius, in fact he is one whom Joly often shadowed at the Necker, Joly always held high praise for him, I am sure he will be able to treat Prouvaire's injuries as well as our own once he has finished with Marius." Courfeyrac interjected. Him and Combeferre could see their friend's resolve cracking, and after a beat, Combeferre delivered the final blow.

"We also are in dire need of food, and proper rest. None of us have eaten anything since the morning of the day before Lemarque's funeral, that was almost two days ago. None of us will heal from our injuries without food, and sleeping on these cobblestones is not allowing us to have restful sleep. And do not even try to deny it, René, you're hurt. Your right leg is injured. Courfeyrac is the least injured out of all of us, though I do not doubt he's quite sore and bruised. We can always go to the Gillenormand estate, get rested and get Prouvaire seen to, and if you still feel uncomfortable then we can leave. But you cannot deny that we cannot stay here."

Enjolras sighed deeply, closing his eyes, "Fine. You are right. Only until everyone is healed. Until this man gives me a reason to trust him, I shall not, no matter how much hospitality he has extended."

Combeferre looked at Courfeyrac, "You said there is a fiacre awaiting us in the street? We'll have to carry Prouvaire once we exit the passageway."

"I will carry him." Courfeyrac stated plainly, stepping over to the injured man and gently waking him. Prouvaire opened his eyes blearily. The redhead's skin was pale and clammy, despite the cool early morning air.

"Mon Ami, we have found somewhere better to reside for the time being, but we have to move you. Can you stand?" Courfeyrac spoke slowly, sensing that Prouvaire wouldn't be able to keep up with his normally quick chatter. Prouvaire nodded slowly, breathing shallowly through his nose. Courfeyrac slid an arm behind the poet's back and helped him into a sitting position. He looked up at Combeferre in concern, not liking at all how limp Prouvaire was. Combeferre frowned, but leant down to assist Courfeyrac in helping their sick friend to stand.

As soon as the man was standing, however, he shut his eyes, doubled over and gagged, his body trying to eject all of his stomach contents. Except that there was nothing in his stomach to throw up, so the poor man was subjected to dry heaving several times before trying to straighten up. Courfeyrac kept his arm wrapped around his friend's torso, and let him lean against him. Enjolras had quickly erased all traces of their presence in the small space, a task which only taken a moment, replacing the ladle and tin cup back underneath the small crate, and retrieving his red waistcoat from the pavement. He picked up Combeferre's smudged glasses and handed them to him.

"We should get going. The longer we wait, the more people that will be about the streets. Have you got him, Courfeyrac?" Enjolras was uneasy, he didn't like sudden changes, but he knew this was the rational decision, whether or not he liked it.

"I've got him. Let's go." Courfeyrac replied. Just before ducking into the narrow passageway that led toward the alley, he paused and gazed around at the petit maison one last time. He doubted he would be back here anytime in the near future. Thank you Gavroche. He sent up a small prayer towards the little gamin. And then, though none of the young men admitted this to each other, they all swore they heard the tinkling sound of childish laughter – Gavroche's laugh – and they all heard him clearly, " _No worries, Mes Amis, I've gotcha_!"

Courfeyrac blinked in astonishment, he was sure he had not imagined what he'd just heard, judging by the expressions on his friends' faces. After a moment, he whispered, "Let's be off."

The four squeezed through the impossibly narrow passageway, Courfeyrac supporting Jehan almost entirely. Their pace through the passageway was slow due to Prouvaire, but none complained, for they had exited into the alleyway soon enough. Enjolras replaced the old wooden sign back over the gap in the walls. Courfeyrac tightened his grip on Prouvaire, and led them to the edge of the street, where a stately, dark blue fiacre was waiting, hitched to a pair of bright bay horses that stood patiently in their traces. The driver stood at the door of the fiacre, and upon seeing the state of Prouvaire, rushed forth to offer assistance, which Courfeyrac waved off politely. The driver then turned to open the door for them, and Combeferre helped ease Prouvaire inside before climbing in himself. Enjolras glared around at their surroundings briefly, then gracefully stepped up into the fiacre. The driver closed the door behind him, and leapt on to the bench at the front. With a flick of the reins, the two horses leaned into their traces and the fiacre lurched as it began to move, the ride smoothing out as the horses picked up a brisk trot, their shod hooves echoing off the buildings lining the streets.

The ride was tense, and the boys were mostly silent. Enjolras had immediately drawn the curtains over the windows, so the three who were alert simply gazed at each other the entire way. The tensest moment came when the fiacre had to cross the Pont Notre Dame, and upon feeling the fiacre slow to a halt, Combeferre had peeked out one of the windows, and spoke with unmasked fear in his voice.

"There are police stationed at the bridge. They are checking the cart in front of us, questioning the driver."

They remained frozen in tense silence as they heard a pair of footsteps approach the Gillenormands' fiacre. They heard the coachman's muffled greeting.

"Bonjour, Je demanderais quant à où vous voyagez à si tôt dans la matinée?" [Good morning, might I ask as to where you travel to so early in the morning?] Came the gendarme's voice.

"The daughter of my employer, Monsieur Gillenormand, has fallen ill in the night, I have been sent to fetch the doctor. Please, Monsieur, I have not the time for an inspection, I was instructed to make great haste!"

"Ah, Monsieur Gillenormand! Fine gentleman. Yes, Monsieur, Of course, you may go on your way."

The coachman thanked the officer, and the fiacre was promptly on its way again. The three young men released the collective breath they'd all been holding. Enjolras glared at Combeferre.

"You said the gendarmes stopped the cart in front on us and checked it?" He inquired, Combeferre nodded, and he continued, "But not this carriage. All because the driver used Monsieur Gillenormand's name. Somehow, the working class and the poor are labelled as criminals because of their financial status. The injustice of it!"

"Enjolras, this is neither the time nor the place. We all know this, but there is nothing presently that can be done about it. The Revolution is nowhere close to over, one failed 'rebellion' as it is sure to be called, does not mean that we failed. We were simply outnumbered; we relied on the people to rise up and join us, but they abandoned us out of fear. We cannot worry about that now. It will only exhaust us further." Combeferre reminded him, with a pointed look at where Prouvaire lay limp next to Courfeyrac. Enjolras sighed, once again, his best friend was right.

They resumed their silence once more, listening to the gentle rumble of the fiacre's wheels and the smart clip of the horses' hooves as they moved through the city. Enjolras's thoughts were consumed by their missing friends, not knowing if they were alive or dead, and hating himself for it. At the first opportunity that presented itself, he resolved to go find them.

A short time later, the boys heard the driver calling 'whoa' to the horses, and the fiacre quickly slowed to to halt. The coachman knocked on the door.

"Messieurs, we have arrived. Might you require any assistance?" The coachman's voice came from outside, and the door opened from the outside as he finished speaking. Combeferre moved past Enjolras and stepped from the fiacre.

"I do not believe so, Monsieur, though I thank you for the offer. If you could simply hold the door while we assist our friend here. You have done more than enough by bringing us here."

"You are quite welcome, Monsieur." The driver appeared slightly shocked by the politeness being shown to him by his passengers, he was not used to being thanked for his service.

Combeferre turned and moved to allow Enjolras to exit the carriage. The two moved to help Prouvaire. That poor man, Bless him, was valiantly trying to exit the fiacre unassisted, despite Courfeyrac trying to hold him back in concern. The poet's face, despite its sheen of sweat, was determined.

"I'm fine Courf." He mumbled, an instant before losing his balance and would have fallen had Enjolras not seized him by the front of his shirt and held him up as he stepped from the fiacre. Enjolras wrapped an arm around Prouvaire's torso, and let the injured man drape his arm over his shoulders.

"Let's get him inside," Enjolras stated, "Before he faints on us completely." He nodded his thanks to the driver, and the other three followed their leader to the ornate door of the estate. Before they could knock, it flew open and they were received by an older woman with silver streaked dark brown hair.

"You must be Marius's friends. Please, come in." The woman ushered them inside. Courfeyrac leaned over.

"Marius's aunt." He quickly muttered in Enjolras's ear. The men filed after the spinster into the salon. She gestured to the finely made sofa and chaise in the center of the room.

"Please, sit. I'll inform my father of your arrival and fetch the doctor. Breakfast will be laid out within the hour." And with that, the woman turned and disappeared up the stairs. The students laid Jehan on the chaise, then Combeferre and Courfeyrac sat stiffly on the sofa. Enjolras remained standing. All four had grown up in similar households, all having been born to wealthy families, so their grand surroundings did not feel strange to them. One would not know it however, from looking at Enjolras's tense stance and wary expression.

Steps on the stairs drew their attention – the middle aged doctor and an elderly man who they could only assume to be Monsieur Gillenormand descended towards them.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac quickly stood to receive them, their etiquette lessons from childhood quickly returning to them. They both bowed politely at the two elder men, as did Enjolras. The doctor immediately turned his attention to Jehan.

"Well, what have we here? Not feeling so well, I see." The doctor leaned down and placed a concerned hand on Prouvaire's shoulder, "Young Men, I'd like to move him upstairs to a bed, if you would help me please." He directed these last words at Courfeyrac and Enjolras. The two complied, and a few minutes later the poet was laid out on a full sized bed with fresh sheets. The thick duvet had been stripped from it, and lay folded on the wooden floor under the bed. A young maid appeared promptly, with a basin of hot water and clean rags, which she placed on the small night table next to the doctor before removing herself quietly. The doctor had removed Enjolras's tattered cravat from Jehan's leg, and the boys all wrinkled their noses at the cloying smell of infection that permeates the air. The do ot seemed unaffected by it, despite his close proximity to the wound, and turned to where the boys stood clustered in the corner.

"It's good that one of you flushed and bandaged it, its helped to stave off the onset of infection, though he does have one. I'm going to have to remove his clothes to properly treat this leg and check for other injuries, I'm going to have to ask all but one of you to leave." The doctor looked apologetic, but his voice was firm. Enjolras nodded to Courfeyrac, and the two left the room, leaving Combeferre alone with the doctor and Jehan.

"Son, I am Doctor Lefevre. I'm going to be treating your injuries. Can you tell me where you are?" The doctor spoke gently to Prouvaire.

"M'sieur 'Lenormand's home." The redhead slurred quietly. His eyes were half closed, but he made eye contact with the doctor.

"You've been hurt quite badly, Monsieur. Your friends have taken good care of you, but I need to examine you more closely, and I need to remove your clothes in order to do so. I can ask your friend here to do it if that makes you more comfortable?" The doctor sounded pleased that Prouvaire was aware of his surroundings, but spoke slowly in order for him to follow along. Prouvaire turned his face upon hearing that one of his friends was present, spying Combeferre across the room and looking relieved.

"Combeferre, you do it, please." His voice cracked. Combeferre looked at Doctor Lefevre for permission to approach, and the doctor nodded in affirmation. Combeferre was instantly at the bedside.

"Are you the one who cared for him?" The doctor inquired. Julian looked at him warily. The doctor sighed understandingly.

"I know you all were at the Barricades. You have nothing to worry about from me, I assure you. I've supported the idea of a Republic for quite a long time, actually." He murmured in a low aside.

"We all cared for him, but yes, Monsieur, I am the one who cleaned and bandaged his leg. I've some basic, rudimentary medical training. One of our friends is a medical student at the Necker as well, so I've learnt a few things in addition." Julian answered , reassured.

"That's good to hear. Might I inquire as to who your friend is?"

"His name is Pierre Joly, I believe he mentioned working under you on several occasions during his shifts at the Necker." Combeferre purposefully referred to Joly in present tense; the beloved Hypochondriac was missing, not dead.

"Monsieur Joly? Ah yes, I did oversee his work quite often! He has a very promising physician career ahead of him. I did not see him with you."

Combeferre looked away, and after a beat, replied, "He was with us at the barricade, Monsieur. We were separated in the chaos yesterday. We do not know where he is, or if…."

The doctor looked at the young man across from him in pity, and, sensing that he would not discuss the topic anymore with him, drew a pair of scissors from his medical bag and handed them to him, "It will be too painful to move him about in order to remove his clothes, you are going to have to cut them off."

Combeferre repeated this to Prouvaire, and, beginning at the hem of his trousers, began cutting the fabric from the poet's lean frame. Piece by piece, the clothing was removed and discarded on the floor. A few minutes later, and Jehan lay on the bed in nothing but his undergarments, and Julian could tell that the nauseous expression on his friend's face was as much from embarrassment as pain.

Thankfully, Doctor Lefevre had produced a bottle of Laudanum from his bag, and asked Prouvaire to open his mouth to receive a dose of the pain killer. The poet's face screwed up at the horrid bitterness of the medicine, but he swallowed, and thankfully, his stomach kept it down. Combeferre watched it begin to take effect, Jehan's eyes glazing over and his body relaxing immensely after a few minutes. The doctor waited until Jehan had fallen into a drug-induced sleep, before asking Combeferre to return to the corner of the room as he retrieved the basin of hot water and a clean rag.

Combeferre watched intently as the doctor expertly flushed out the wound with the hot water, using the clean rags to staunch the blood and pus leaking from the leg, and then pouring a strong-smelling amber liquid on the exposed flesh. Even unconscious as deeply as he was, Jehan tensed and let out a pitiful moan as what was clearly a sort of antibiotic made contact with his wound. Combeferre resisted the urge to return to the bedside to comfort him, remaining where he stood. The doctor worked efficiently; the wound cleaned, he quickly examined the rest of Jehan's body for more injuries. Aside from a slightly inflamed abrasion on the back of his left shoulder, there were no more open wounds. The numerous bruises along the left side of his body would heal without treatment, and the abrasion was quickly dealt with and the shoulder wrapped in a proper bandage. The doctor then retrieved a needle and thread from his bag to stitch closed the deep laceration on Prouvaire's leg. Combeferre looked away for this part, bruises and minor injuries he could handle, but he had never been able to quite feel comfortable with stitches, regardless of the fact that he was not the one receiving them.

The doctor soon completed the stitches, wrapping Jehan's leg with clean bandages. He folded the sheets of the bed around his legs loosely, before turning to where Combeferre still stood in "his" corner.

"I'm going to leave a bottle of Laudanum here on the bed table, please do not hesitate to give him a full spoonful of it if he shows signs of intense pain. I seem to have been able to catch the infection early enough that he should overcome it quite easily. He has a fever, it's simply his body trying to fight the infection, but I would advise keeping a basin of cool water with rags nearby. Keep the damp rags on his forehead and torso as much as possible, but we do not want him catching a chill in this state. He is going to get worse before he gets better, that is the healing process when an infection has taken hold. You can use the rags as cold compresses as well on the bruises. I must stress the importance of keeping him hydrated, and though he will not want to eat much, and likely will have difficulty keeping anything down in this condition, he needs to eat in order to keep his strength. A bowl of broth should be easy enough for him to keep down. He is very lucky that you all arrived here when you did, a few hours more and I would have started worrying about the onset of gangrene."

"I cannot thank you enough for all you are doing to help us, Monsieur. It truly means a lot, to all of us." Combeferre replied warmly with a bow.

"I'd like to see to your other friends, just to make sure they are not hiding any serious injuries. I see the laceration on your arm, no use trying to hide it, Son."

Combeferre frowned slightly in embarrassment, but followed the doctor out of the room. His friends, alongside Monsieur Gillenormand, Marius's aunt, and surprisingly, Monsieur Fauchelevent were seated at the large table, breakfast was just being laid out before them. All of them stood to receive the two as they entered the dining room.

"Doctor, please stay and dine with us, it would please my daughter and I greatly if you were to accept our invitation." Monsieur Gillenormand spoke, gesturing for the two of them to take a seat at the table. Combeferre had to restrain himself at the sight – and smell – of the food as he graciously took a seat next to Enjolras, across from Courfeyrac and Monsieur Fauchelevent.

The doctor took the other vacant chair at the opposite end of the table.

Though the boys had heard on numerous occasions from Marius that his grandfather was not very religious, he turned to Monsieur Fauchelevent and asked him to lead them in prayer before they began their meal. Monsieur Fauchelevent rose from his seat as the elder man seated himself at the head of the table, and bowed his head. The boys and Mademoiselle Gillenormand followed suit, with Monsieur Gillenormand hesitating for only a moment before doing the same.

"Heavenly Father, who art in Heaven, Please Bless this wonderful food which is laid out before us, Bless the hospitality and continuing generosity of our hosts. We pray humbly for the quick recovery of our young friends, and for us to be reunited with the brave young men who are not by our sides. We thank You Humbly for protecting and continuing to watch over these courageous men in their time of struggle. And we pray that those who were taken from us so tragically have found peace and sanctuary by Your side. In the Name of Your Son, Jesus Christ, we pray. Amen." Fauchelevent spoke gently, and crossed himself upon finishing the prayer. The other boys quickly crossed themselves as well, and at an unspoken signal, they all began to eat. The boys tried to pace themselves, to not inhale their food like animals, but they clearly didn't do a good job at disguising their hunger, for they all noticed the older men and Marius's aunt staring at them in slight astonishment. Only Monsieur Fauchelevent, oddly, did not appear to be surprised by the boys' ravenous hunger, in fact he appeared quite melancholy for just a second.

"Good gracious, Young Men! When was the last time you ate anything?" The doctor exclaimed.

Enjolras's cheeks burned in embarrassment at his rude manners; his friends appeared similarly chastised. The doctor appeared waiting for an answer, and the Gillenormands seemed curious. He gently placed his silverware down on his plate, and cleared his throat uncomfortably at all the eyes trained on him.

"We've eaten nothing at all for the past two days, aside from a bottle of wine the first night of the barricade. I do not think any of us here have had a full meal since the morning of the day before the funeral of General Lemarque."

The doctor looked askance, as did the Gillenormands, though the doctor, knowing the effects of going without food from observing patients at the hospital, gave a slow shake of his head at the notion that these three young men – none of them could be older than twenty-three – had managed to remain on their feet after going hungry for several days when their bodies had to be used to full meals several times daily. These boys were all students at the university, that was clear, so they all had to have come from wealthy families. He grinned sympathetically at the trio.

"Try not to eat so quickly, I understand you're quite ravenous, but you can make yourselves ill after going so long without food if you do not pace yourselves." He ordered good naturedly.

"I apologize for our rudeness, Monsieur Gillenormand. I assure you, none of us were raised with the table manners of swine." Enjolras spoke in the smooth, rolling voice that was prominent in the South. Combeferre possessed the same quality, having grown up in the same coastal city, albeit in a softer, less noticeable tone, brought about from years of tutors from other regions attempting unsuccessfully to train him out of it.

Monsieur Gillenormand waved away the apology, "Not to worry, my boy, a slight exception to etiquette at this one meal can only be expected."

Courfeyrac took this moment to speak up for the first time since entering the Gillenormand estate, "How is Marius, Monsieur? I assume he is resting?"

"He was bathed promptly after you departed, per Doctor Lefevre's instructions, and the bullets were removed surgically from both his stomach and his leg. He has yet to awaken from the blood loss he sustained, but the good doctor here has said that the outlook is quite good."

"Yes, thankfully, the shot to his abdomen did not pierce any organs, arteries, or veins. We are on watch for an infection, which is almost certain to form, due to his manner of escape. I cleaned both wounds as thoroughly as possible, but the risk is still high. He will simply have to be watched closely. He lost a fair amount of blood, but thankfully not enough to be life threatening. Give him two or three weeks and he should recover from the blood loss, though the wound in his stomach will take much longer to heal." Doctor Lefevre agreed, then trained his gaze on the trio of young men, "As for Monsieur Prouvaire, I am afraid that his injuries have proved a bit troublesome. He was not shot, thank goodness, but the wound on his leg is quite deep, almost down to the bone, and I suspect he obtained it by falling, and catching his leg on something sharp. My theory is that he fell from the barricade, and his leg became entangled by a broken piece of wood, given how jagged the wound is. The problem herein lies with the fact that an infection has already set in. I have sutured his leg, and disinfected an abrasion on his shoulder. My theory as to him falling is supported by the fact that the entire left side of his torso is bruised quite severely. He has been given a dose of Laudanum to help with the pain, and is currently resting. He was aware of his surroundings when awake, which is promising. I have left instructions with Monsieur – Combeferre, was it? – Combeferre as to his care until I return in a few days to check up on both men."

"Your assistance at such an hour is most greatly appreciated, Doctor. And rest assured, Young Men, I shall take care of the expenses for Monsieur Prouvaire's care and recovery." M. Gillenormand promised. The boys thanked him profusely, even while continuing to eat. The elderly man spoke up again.

"I beg your pardon, but I am afraid that no proper introductions have been made! I must apologize. I am sure you all at least know my name, though I am certain that my grandson has not voiced kind opinions of me. Mademoiselle Gillenormand is my only surviving daughter, and is Marius's aunt."

"Ultime Fauchelevent, Monsieur. I believe that Marius has become quite taken with my daughter, which was what led me to the barricade, to ensure his safety. I had never met him before arriving there, other than spotting him in passing on numerous occasions in Le Jardin du Luxembourg on outings with my daughter."

"Well, you must love your daughter dearly to go to such lengths for her happiness. Please, bring her with you on your next visit. I should most like to meet the young lady who has captured my grandson's heart." M. Gillenormand appeared apologetic, not giving voice to how he had tried to persuade Marius to simply take the girl as his mistress when he had come to ask his permission to marry her. He looked at Enjolras, who had laid down his silverware on his plate to signal that he was finished eating.

"René Enjolras, I am in my final year of law studies at the University." Enjolras seemed as if he would say no more, until Monsieur Fauchelevent prompted him.

"Where are you from originally, René? Your accent clearly is not Parisian." The old man inquired. He had figured that the blond man was from the south, but could figure no more than that based off his accent.

"I am from Marseille, my father owns several sugar refinery mills near there. I only left there when I applied to University here." René explained, looking at Combeferre, who took the hint and spoke up.

"Julien Combeferre, Monsieur. I also hail from Marseille, my father owns several trading ships that sail out of the port there, though he travels to Paris twice yearly for business. It was planned for me to apprentice to my father to take over his shipping company, but I seem to have found my calling in Philosophy rather than sea charts and shipping lanes. I am also attending University, I am a year behind Enjolras in my studies, in my fifth year."

"Ah, yes! I have heard talk of your family's success in a few social circles that I still maintain presence in. Your father's ship captains all seem to be very respected seamen, lucky to be employed by your father!" Monsieur Gillenormand clapped his hands once in recollection.

"Rather, my father is the lucky one! He runs a good business, and is a fair employer. He's lucky to have found such knowledgeable crews to man his ships." Combeferre pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose.

"I believe we have already been acquainted, albeit rather briefly, Monsieur de Courfeyrac. Might I ask as to where you are from?" M. Gillenormand looked at where the dark haired boy was sipping – Enjolras could not recall ever seeing the fun-loving, skirt chasing boy behaving with such poise – from a cup of steaming coffee. He looked up upon hearing his name, his wide-spaced eyes lending even more to his boyish appearance.

"Just Courfeyrac, Monsieur, if you please. Monsieur de Courfeyrac is my father. I grew up here in Paris, my family maintains their estate just outside the city. I keep an apartment nearby the University, and Marius has lodged with me for the past….nearly a year now, in the spare bedroom."

"And you are a student as well, I presume?" Marius's grandfather appeared slightly chagrined upon hearing that his grandson, who had refused any sort of financial support from him, had become so poor that he could not even afford to maintain his own residence.

"Yes, I am a law student in my fourth year of studies."

The meal concluded soon after, with Doctor Lefevre voicing concern about the boys eating too much after being unaccustomed to going hungry. The remaining food and utensils were promptly cleared away by two maids whom M. Gillenormand both addressed as Nicolette. At the doctor's urging all three of the boys followed him into the front parlor and up the stairs to the second floor. He led them into an empty bedroom opposite the doorway of Jehan's room, to examine their injuries. He sat Combeferre on the bed first, having noticed his arm earlier.

"Son, I'll need you either roll up your shirtsleeve or remove your shirt. It may be simply easier to just remove your shirt, I believe one of the maids is being sent up with fresh clothing for all of you shortly." The doctor was already rummaging through his medical bag as he spoke, bringing out the same bottle of antibiotic he had used to disinfect Jehan's leg, and a needle and thread. Combeferre, having obediently discarded his shirt and blue-grey vest on the floor at his feet, immediately tensed as he spied the subtle glint of the needle. He sat ramrod straight, his broad shoulders tense in anticipation as he held Enjolras's clear blue gaze from across the room. The other man was expressionless as he looked on, and Combeferre knew that his friend's seemingly emotional detachment was simply his way of dealing with difficult or stressful situations, and that he would fully comprehend their circumstances soon enough. Quite frankly, Julien dreaded the moment that happened, not knowing what to expect from his friend. He himself was battling feelings of grief now that his mind was releasing itself from survival mode, but he could remain steadfast until he was alone. The doctor's voice drew him from his thoughts.

"Now, Combeferre, this is going to sting quite a bit, I must warn you, but it's merely a disinfectant."

Combeferre glanced at the doctor, and nodded once, before training his gaze on René once more.

A sudden, excruciating burning sensation that quickly spread the entire length of his forearm and curved up just past his elbow caused him to flinch violently, and a pained hiss escaped his lips. He clenched his fists and screwed his eyes shut until the pain subsided somewhat. Enjolras's stone-like expression cracked at Combeferre's reaction, worry evident in his blue eyes, his mouth turning down slightly. Combeferre recovered quickly, clenching his jaw. The doctor had grasped the younger man's wrist tightly to keep him still as he poured the substance over the inflamed wound, anticipating this reaction. He'd quickly scrubbed the wound to reopen it, this went unnoticed by the young student, but the poor boy definitely noticed when he poured the disinfectant over the now-exposed laceration.

"Deep breath, My Boy. I need you to relax in order for me to suture this up. It won't take long." The doctor ordered patiently, needle in hand.

Combeferre looked away, trying to relax as he felt the repeated pinch and tug of the needle on his skin. Before he knew it, the doctor was finished, and was binding a bandage around the stitches. He stood quickly, thanking the doctor. As he stopped to pick his discarded shirt and vest up from the floor, the same young maid who had appeared in Prouvaire's room earlier that morning entered the room with a stack of folded fabric. All three young men turned to look at her, even as Courfeyrac took Combeferre's place on the edge of the bed. She kept her eyes lowered and curtsied quickly.

"I've gathered some clothes of the young Monsieur for you all to borrow for the time being. I apologize if they do not fit so well. The washroom is three doors down the hall to your left. Please take as much time as you need to bathe and change." Her quiet voice seemed more directed to the floor than the young men before her, and she quickly curtsied once more and left the room. Enjolras glanced at the stack of clothing the maid had placed on the chair near the door.

"Combeferre, go wash up. Courf and I will take our turns once the doctor is through with us." He instructed. Combeferre, still bare-chested, quickly selected a shirt and a pair of trousers that seemed as though they would fit and left the room. The doctor finished examining Courfeyrac quickly; the younger man had no serious injuries that would require medical attention. He was bruised and sore, and would remain so for several days, but the best medicine would be rest. He remained in the room, waiting for Combeferre to vacate the washroom, and stood solemnly by as the doctor ordered Enjolras to remove his boots and waistcoat, along with his vest. Enjolras sat stiffly on the bed, in only his shirtsleeves and once pristine trousers. He stared straight ahead and answered the doctor's questions in monosyllables, much to the middle-aged man's chagrin.

 _The poor lad is probably traumatized,_ He thought as he continued with his questions. Only twice did the handsome young man give answers that caused some concern. At some prodding, Enjolras admitted to falling and hitting his head on the pavement during the fighting, but quickly assured the doctor that he had not lost consciousness and that he had not felt dizzy after the first initial moment of shock. The second cause for concern was the nearly invisible flinch the blond gave as the doctor prodded his ankle.

"There is some slight swelling here, Lad. I do not think that it is any more than a minor sprain, but please take care to not put too much weight on it for the next two or three days. I'll check it again when I return to check up on our friends across the hall." The doctor stood, and gathered his supplies into his bag, "I'll see myself out, please get plenty of rest and send for me immediately should either Messieurs Pontmercy or Prouvaire take a bad turn."

With the doctor gone, Enjolras sighed deeply in relief. He could feel the burden of grief on his shoulders like a suffocating blanket, but he refused to acknowledge it for now. He wasn't ready to acknowledge the extreme scale of their failure. Courfeyrac gave him a concerned look, aside from Combeferre, he was Enjolras's closest friend, the first friend he'd made upon arriving in Paris. Though he couldn't read him quite as well as Combeferre could, he could see hints of the emotional turmoil his friend was battling internally.

"Enjolras, I'm going to go see if Combeferre is quite finished with the washroom. Will you be okay here?" The dark haired man broke the silence, his Parisian accent clear.

"I'm fine, Courf." René snapped impatiently, immediately regretting his tone as the younger man appeared to almost wilt before his very eyes. The twenty-four year old had worn his heart on his sleeve for as long as Enjolras had known him.

"Antoine, I'm sorry. That was rude of me."

"Apology accepted, René, simply surprised me a bit, that's all." Courfeyrac brushed it off and left the room, taking a shirt and pair of trousers from the chair, leaving Enjolras with the last set of clothing. Combeferre entered then, his light brown hair, which was in need of a trim, damp.

"I'm going to go check on Jehan, and see about Marius, if you'd like to join me?" His friend asked softly, his blue-green eyes tired but alert. Enjolras shook his head.

"I believe I'll wait for Courfeyrac to finish in the washroom so that I can bathe."

"Very well, if you need me after you're finished, I'm going to ask M. Gillenormand if his library is open for use."

Enjolras buried his face in his hands after Julien had disappeared down the stairs, and tried not to let his guilt-ridden thoughts consume him. He felt….numb. That's the only word he could find to describe what he was feeling. He sat like this for the better part of the next half hour, until the sound of the door opening down the hall signaled that the washroom was available. Enjolras stood quickly, retrieving the bundle of clothes from the chair and set off down the hall. He passed a freshly cleaned Courfeyrac in the hallway, and paused to address him.

"Combeferre is downstairs in the library, I believe." He stated, vaguely wondering why Courfeyrac had bathed a second time after he'd clearly bathed during the night before collecting the rest of them and bringing them here. He didn't dwell on it, however, and closed the door to the washroom upon entering. A timid knock at the door sounded before he could undress, and he opened it to find a different maid than the one from before in the doorway, with two pails of steaming water in her hands.

"I figured you might want some water to bathe with, Monsieur." The maid said, with a slight undertone of laughter. Enjolras realized that, indeed, the large copper bath was empty.

"Forgive me, Mademoiselle, I was distracted. Please, allow me to carry one of your pails." Enjolras, ever the gentleman, reached out to take one of the buckets from the girl. She appeared to be older than the other one they'd seen, but her arms trembled under the weight of carrying the buckets up the stairs.

"You do not have to do that, Monsieur. I am quite used to lifting them myself." The girl replied, but her face was thankful. Enjolras quirked a brow, but didn't speak further, simply opening the door wider to allow the girl the enter. She quickly filled the bath, and left the room, closing the door behind her. With no further interruptions, Enjolras peeled the shirt from his back and unfastened his suspenders, and removed his trousers. Goosebumps appeared briefly on his nude body, for he hadn't been undressed since the morning of Lemarque's funeral, and had been clad in the same clothes he'd dressed in then for the past two days. He lowered himself into the bath, letting the hot water soothe his sore and battered body. He let his knotted muscles relax as he sat there with his eyes closed for several moments. He retrieved a bar of lye soap from a small table behind his head, and set about scrubbing the grime and dried sweat accumulated over the past two days from his skin. He scrubbed his tangled and filthy hair with the soap, trying to work the knots and rat's nests from the disheveled curls. He rinsed the combination of dirt and soap from his hair and body with a pitcher of water that sat on the same table where he had found the soap. This finished, he stood, and quickly dried off with a thick towel.

His hair hung in damp tendrils around his face as he dressed in Marius's clothes. The trousers were a tad short – he was quite a bit taller than Marius, and of a more muscular build, but the simple cream colored shirt thankfully fit loosely over his broad shoulders, the sleeves mercifully reaching his wrists. He had to admit, the bath had helped immensely, both in relaxing him and cleaning him, but he once more had to shove down feelings of self-loathing. He attempted to run a comb through his hair, and found the task nearly impossible – it seemed as though his hair was simply too tangled and knotted to comb it out evenly. He took a breath in alight annoyance; he wasn't a vain man by any means, in fact he was quite the opposite of vain, and was very humble, but he'd liked his hair.

He exited the washroom, and went off in search of his friends and Monsieur Gillenormand in freshly stockinged feet. He found the impressive library on the main floor, and Combeferre and Courfeyrac inside. The two both occupied a finely made sofa, and were both individually focused on leather-bound volumes they held. Monsieur Gillenormand was nowhere to be seen, though his daughter occupied a corner of the library focused intently on needlepoint. Combeferre looked up upon hearing Enjolras enter, Courfeyrac lifted his head briefly before returning to whatever he was reading.

"I need a pair of scissors. Have you seen where Monsieur Gillenormand is?" Enjolras stated matter-of-factly, fingering a stand of hair as means of explanation. Combeferre chuckled under his breath and set his novel down.

"This is why I keep my hair short, Mon Ami!" He half-joked. Mademoiselle Gillenormand had looked up upon hearing Combeferre's low laughter, and clucked in amusement as she took in the sight of Enjolras's once beautiful hair. She rose from her seat and approached him. Enjolras looked at the finely dressed spinster warily, but relaxed his stance at a pointed look from Combeferre.

"Follow me, Young Man." She left the room, giving Enjolras no choice but to follow her. He may not trust either her or Marius's grandfather yet, but he did not wish to offend either. He had manners, and he knew how to use them. She led him into a small parlor down the hall, where sewing supplies covered a low table. She pointed at one of the cushioned chairs as she pricked up a small silver pair of sewing scissors from amid the spools of colored thread and pincushions. Enjolras wordlessly took a seat, and she promptly began snipping away at the unsalvageable curls.

"I used to trim Marius's hair all the time, and my cousin Theodule's before that. You do not mind me cropping it short, do you?"

"No, Mademoiselle, it will grow back. Do whatever is necessary." Enjolras replied.

"Do you ever carry normal conversation, Monsieur, or do you simply speak only when necessary?" The scissors paused.

Enjolras blinked in surprise at the unexpected question, finally replying with, "I have never been one for conversing merely to pass the time. Please forgive me."

"No apology necessary, my Dear. You certainly are not the only man who is not much for words!" The scissors began slicing away at his hair once more, and Enjolras simply listened to the empty chatter pouring from the woman's mouth as she worked. Not since he'd left Marseille six years ago had he been cared for in such a maternal manner. His mother had seen to the upkeep of his appearance when he was a young child, and then as he'd grown older he'd begun having his hair cut by the barber in town. His thoughts wandered to his parents, an usually occurrence. He thought of his mother on a fairly regular basis, but often chose to ignore thoughts of his father. He was quite certain that news of the "revolt" was already circulating in newspapers throughout the country. Marseille was the largest city in France excepting Paris, and many of the influential families there also had winter homes in Paris. He vaguely wondered how his parents would receive the news of his failure, and how long it would take them to figure out his involvement in the Uprising. Neither had supported his political views, his mother only out of fear for his safety, and his father was a Royalist, and had violently opposed his only son's opinions when he was made aware of them. Enjolras had left the estate a week later to apply at University. He wondered if the newspapers would mention the escape of the last insurgent leader – him. Or would they claim that he had been killed at the Barricade? Either way, he knew that the National Guard and the Police had figured out by now that he had escaped. They knew his face, they would have checked among the carnage for his body. Of course, they hadn't found it, because he was sitting right here, but he knew that they would likely soon begin a search for him if they hadn't already. His thoughts were interrupted by Mademoiselle Gillenormand laying the scissors on the table in front of him. Strands of his hair lay on the floor around his chair, and he stood to thank the aging woman.

"You're quite welcome. Now go find yourself a book and join your friends. I'll have a tray of tea brought out, and some refreshments."

Enjolras returned to the library, and ran his hand across his now-short hair, the shorn ends prickling unfamiliarly on his fingers. It had never been cut this short, for as long as he could remember. It was short enough now that it could not be discerned that his hair was in fact quite curly. There was a slight wave in the texture, but that was all. Combeferre stared at him in surprise when he entered, as did Courfeyrac.

"What?" Enjolras very nearly snapped, and Combeferre rolled his eyes at Enjolras's discomfort.

"We've simply never seen you with such short hair before, Mon Ami. Come on, there are some very intriguing titles on the shelves, pick one and sit with us."

"Monsieur Fauchelevent returned home while you were bathing, he said he had to check on his daughter, something about him never having left her alone for so long. He's rather peculiar with the way it sounds like he dotes on her. Nevertheless, he has said that she will accompany him on his next visit." Courfeyrac spoke up. As Enjolras scanned one of the three large bookcases, settling on a dusty copy of Rousseau and moving to occupy the armchair across from his two close friends, he noticed Courfeyrac's face change into a shocked and perplexed expression. He watched him closely, as clearly the younger man had had a troubling thought.

Courfeyrac's thoughts had been dragged back to the previous night, to when he'd first stumbled across the standoff between Fauchelevent and the police Inspector, Javert. At the end of the two mens' tense exchange, Javert had uttered a number. Had addressed Fauchelevent as a number. As though the number was the man's name. _24601_. Courfeyrac could make no sense of it, and he saw Enjolras staring at him anxiously.

"Antoine, what is it?" Enjolras inquired, leaning forward with his hands resting on his knees. Combeferre turned his attention to him as well.

"Last night, I saw, or rather heard, a bit of both, something that I simply cannot make sense of" Courfeyrac spoke in a hushed tone, glancing towards the doorway of the library to ensure that nobody else was listening. He continued, "You both know that Monsieur Fauchelevent escaped with Marius through the sewers."

Both nodded in affirmation, and he relayed what he'd witnessed to his friends.

"The Police Inspector, Javert, the one that was spying on us at the barricade, he was there. Waiting for him. Fauchelevent did not execute him like we thought, he let him go. And they have history, I think. Javert had a pistol, I think he originally went there to either arrest Monsieur Fauchelevent or shoot him. I'm not sure which. But, here is where it makes no sense. After Monsieur Fauchelevent climbed out of the sewer, with Marius on his back, he began to walk away, toward where I was hiding. And Javert stopped him in his tracks by addressing him with a number. It was as though Javert had seized him by the back of his shirt, he halted so suddenly. Javert threatened him with his pistol, but Monsieur Fauchelevent just looked at him, and then continued walking. Javert just stood there, and let him go. He seemed almost afraid. But not of Fauchelevent. I followed and intercepted Fauchelevent a few streets over."

"What was this number?" Enjolras spoke after several long seconds of silence, his voice deadly quiet.

"It was – He addressed him as 24601. I don't know what it means." Courfeyrac replied.

Combeferre's eyebrows shot up, as did Enjolras's. The two exchanged a look. They were both farther along in their studies at the University than Courfeyrac, and clearly understood the significance of the number.

"Why would the Inspector address him with a number?" Courfeyrac asked when neither of his friends said anything.

"That was a Prison Number. They teach you about the Penal System in your fifth year of Law Studies. French convicts are given identification numbers, unique to each prisoner, and up until five years ago their number and type of labor required of them was hot branded on their shoulders." Enjolras explained, his face calculating.

"They recently did away with the hot branding, due to complaints that not all convicts serve life sentences so therefore only require temporary forms of identification." Combeferre added.

"So….Monsieur Fauchelevent is a convict? Or was?" Courfeyrac guessed. He was only halfway through his fourth year, and his professors had just recently begun to shift their lectures towards the requirements and customs that the Police had to adhere to when arresting and serving warrants. Interesting topics, but nevertheless he was sadly grasping at straws as he tried to follow along with the twist that the conversation had taken when he'd mentioned the number.

"The possibility is high, and my guess is that Inspector Javert likely began his career as a prison guard after graduating from Académie du Police before being promoted through the ranks up to Inspector, it's fairly common for gendarmes to start off as prison guards." Combeferre theorized.

"So since he addressed Monsieur Fauchelevent using a prison number, then he must have been stationed at the prison that Fauchelevent had to have been imprisoned at when he was serving his sentence." Courfeyrac assumed, starting to catch up to the speed at which his friends were throwing around advanced teachings learned in their University classes.

"Whenever that was. Remember, neither of them are young men, Javert's police card read his age to be fifty-two, and Fauchelevent has to be at least sixty. If Javert began his career at one of the prisons, he would have been young at the time. But the only way to find anything out for certain, other than asking Fauchelevent about it directly, is to locate some public arrest records, they are made available to the public at the Prefecture of Police. They keep records for fifty years before disposing of them." Combeferre's logical mind reasoned.

"Yes, well none of us can just go waltzing into the Prefecture of Police, now can we?" Enjolras scoffed, "We'd be – " He broke off abruptly as Mademoiselle Gillenormand entered the library, one of the maids, the younger one, followed her with a silver platter adorned with a teapot and three China teacups, along with a small tin of sugar and a small dish of cream. The girl timidly ignored their gazes when they glanced up at her in unison as she set the platter down and turned to leave.

"Merci, Mademoiselle." Combeferre's gentle tone stopped her, and she turned to face him with a surprised expression. He smiled softly at her, curious as to whether she was timid by nature or if her profession had made her so.

"De rien, Monsieur." She replied with a small curtsy, before hurriedly leaving the room. Mademoiselle Gillenormand, who had returned immediately to her needlepoint in the corner, spoke up then.

"Why do you thank her? She's only a maid, her job is to serve us." The woman seemed genuinely confused.

"I believe in extending gratitude and kindness to everyone, Mademoiselle, regardless of their social standing or profession." Combeferre replied kindly, his Marseille accent unusually strong with these words. Mademoiselle Gillenormand hummed under her breath, and continued with her needlepoint. The boys returned to their readings, and several hours passed them by, until Combeferre stood abruptly to stretch his back, and as he sat back down, the older maid appeared in the doorway.

"My Lady, and Messieurs, I am here to inform you that dinner shall be ready momentarily. I have already informed Monsieur."

"Thank you, Nicolette, we will be there shortly. You are dismissed." Mademoiselle Gillenormand and the maid both seemed slightly surprised at the older woman's thanks, though the maid quickly recovered her composure and left with a curtsy. Mademoiselle Gillenormand Rose and looked at the three young men.

"Shall we?" She motioned for them to follow as she moved to exit the library, and they followed after her.

Dinner was a quiet affair, and though it would be considered a simple meal by Bourgeois standards, none of the boys could help thinking that the amount of food laid out before them would be enough to feed two or three small families in the slums for at least three days. Conversation was minimal, their hosts seeming to realize that the boys were starting to feel fatigued and were not up for much talking. The meal concluded quickly without conversation to slow it down, and Enjolras looked to where Monsieur Gillenormand sat at the head of the table.

"Monsieur, we thank you for the meal, I have not had the pleasure of Foie Gras for quite a long time. Might we be excused from the meal to prepare for bed? That is, if you are not opposed to us sleeping here."

"Of course you all are welcome to sleep here! I have said you are more than welcome to reside here for as long as is necessary!" Monsieur Gillenormand replied quite gruffly, albeit good-naturedly, "the maids have prepared a room for each of you upstairs in the same hall as Marius and your friend. I am afraid that we could not locate any nightclothes for you three to borrow, I will work out the issue of proper clothing in the morning."

"I thank you again, Monsieur, you and your daughter, as well as your staff have been most welcoming." With that, Enjolras stood, and bid their hosts goodnight with a polite bow, and retired up the stairs with Courfeyrac and Combeferre on his heels. They carefully checked in on Prouvaire, who, although still feverish, was trying to sit up in his bed. Courfeyrac immediately rushed over to gently push him back down on the mattress.

"The doctor says you need to stay in bed. Are you hungry?" He asked, spying a rapidly cooling bowl of broth that had been placed at the bedside, likely put there while they were dining downstairs. Prouvaire tried to answer yes, but only succeeded in forming the word with his lips – no sound came out other than a slight wheeze. Combeferre and Enjolras joined Courfeyrac by the bed, both sitting carefully at the end of the mattress, by Jehan's feet.

"We've got some broth here for you, do you think you can keep it down?" Courfeyrac continued, and Prouvaire nodded weakly, "Enjolras, can you help him sit up, please? I'm going to see if I can get some of this broth into him."

Enjolras carefully moved so that he was sitting beside Jehan's pillow, and cautiously slid an arm behind the poet's back and placed a hand behind his head, gently easing the poor man into a more upright position so that he could swallow easily. Courfeyrac held the bowl, and guided a spoonful of the broth into Jehan's mouth. Jehan swallowed gratefully, and they managed to get him to consume almost half the bowl before he sagged back against Enjolras's arm and whispered, "No more."

Enjolras gently laid his friend back on his pillow, and looked at Combeferre, "Can he have another dose of Laudanum? Didn't the doctor say to give him more if he showed signs of pain?"

"I can give him half of a dose, since he's already had one full dose today, and on an empty stomach. Laudanum is quite potent, I'd rather not overdose him. But yes, I'll give him a tad more just to help him sleep tonight." Combeferre sighed, pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his nose.

Once Jehan had swallowed more of the painkiller and let its effects lull him into a more restful sleep, the other three Amis bid each other goodnight, and retired to their separate chambers. Enjolras found himself in the room directly across from the washroom. He closed the door, stripping off the borrowed trousers and shirt before collapsing heavily on the freshly made bed clad in nothing but his underclothes, blowing out the single candle placed on the night table. The moon's watery light from outside the single window illuminated the room with a soft silvery light. He murmured a quiet prayer, though he truly felt too exhausted to summon the energy to clasp his hands together to pray properly. Once breathing out an _Amen_ upon concluding his prayer, sleep overcame him almost instantly.

It was then, with his defenses relaxed, and his guard down in his slumber, that the nightmares appeared.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Bonjour! Oh my gosh this was a hard chapter to write, because as I've mentioned before, I love ALL the Amis! I hope to have chapter 5 written and posted by next week; it takes me about that long to write each chapter in between my college classes and work! Also, I'm thinking about changing the title of this story, I got the title from a direct quote in the book, but I'm thinking of translating into French. Anyway, Enjoy and please don't forget to R &R!**_

 _He couldn't see. There was smoke everywhere, dense, thick black smoke that burned his eyes and seared his lungs. It was eerily silent, even as he stumbled across a cobblestone street – was it a street? It had to be. – he couldn't hear his own footsteps._

 _Where was he? Where were his friends? He coughed violently as he inhaled more smoke. It was acrid, bitter, unlike any smoke he'd smelled before. And as he forcefully opened his watering eyes wide to see, he could vaguely tell that upon closer look, the smoke was not completely opaque. There were distant shadows flitting here and there in the distance, and he adjusted his path towards them. Where were his_ friends _?_

" _Combeferre!" He shouted, his voice hoarse from the smoke, "Courfeyrac! Joly!"_

 _There was no reply, and he continued his call, "Feuilly! Bossuet! Prouvaire!"_

 _Suddenly, a bone chilling scream froze him in his tracks. He inhaled in shock, and immediately was seized by a fit of violent coughing._

" _Bahorel!" He cried, desperate for any of his friends to answer, who had screamed? Another agonized scream pierced the dense air, and he felt his blood turn to ice. He knew that voice. Joly._

" _JOLY!" He set off at a clumsy run through the smoke, horrified. He ran towards the direction of his friend's voice as it continued to cry out, and soon more cries joined in._

" _Help! Please, help us!" This was Bossuet, he was sure, and the words sounded eerily familiar, though where he'd heard them before he could not place. Finally, finally he broke through the smoke, and beyond it the air was crisp and clear. He stepped cautiously forward, and almost immediately stumbled. He looked down and bit back a frightened cry. His friends all lay dead before him, their blood mingling together amid the paving stones. Wait, Bahorel. Bahorel was alive. He knelt beside him instantly._

" _Bahorel! Bahorel, what's happened?" He croaked. The other man's bloody hand seized him by the front of his shirt._

" _We're dead, Oh Fearless Leader. We're all dead, because of you. You killed us." He spit._

" _No! No, no I—"_

" _We died fighting for you! For your cause! This is your fault!" And then Bahorel fell limp._

 _And Enjolras let out a scream._

Combeferre was sitting in a chair beside Prouvaire's bed, watching his restless sleep. He'd awoken an hour or so before, and, unable to fall back asleep, he'd risen and decided to check on Marius and Prouvaire. Marius was out cold, his thick blankets draped over his lean form, the thick bandage around his abdomen partially visible. Combeferre had taken a damp rag from the basin at his friend's bedside and mopped the small beads of sweat from Marius's face. He'd adjusted the blankets, pulling them up higher around Marius's body, before going to check on Prouvaire.

The poet was sprawled across the mattress, evidence of his restless sleep. Combeferre was quite certain that he would be awake if not for the heavy effects of the Laudanum. He gently rearranged his friend's legs so that they lay under the sheets once more, careful not to jostle his injured limb. He'd mopped Jehan's bare chest and his face with a damp cloth, much like he'd done with Marius, but left the blankets folded down around his legs rather than pulling them up to cover his friend completely. He was still feverish, but the sweat that Combeferre had washed away had been a good sign, a sign that his fever was going down.

Prouvaire let out a quiet whimper in his sleep, and Combeferre laid a comforting hand on his non bandaged shoulder, feeling the poet quiet under his touch. He'd settled back into his chair, and continued to watch his friend rest. Almost an hour passed in this manner, when suddenly an agonized scream ripped through the house, chilling Combeferre to the bone. He was out of his chair and in the hallway almost instantly, searching for the source of the cry. A choking sob sounded from behind the door across from the washroom, and he carefully threw the door open. The sight that greeted him turned his blood to ice in his veins.

Enjolras twitched violently on the bed, his long limbs jerking uncontrollably. His handsome face was contorted in horror, and his breath came in quick gasps, interspersed by small whimpers. Combeferre rushed to the bedside. He knew that it wasn't recommended to wake someone up from a dream, but this wasn't a dream, whatever was torturing his friend in his sleep. As he firmly laid comforting hands on his friend's bare chest to hold him still, he glanced up toward the doorway to spot Courfeyrac and Monsieur Gillenormand standing outside the door, their faces horrified.

"My Goodness, shall I send for the doctor?" The elderly man's voice reached Julien's ears. He shook his head, even as he continued to hold Enjolras down.

"No, Monsieur, he's dreaming, I'll wake him up. He's been under a great deal of stress these last few days, this sort of reaction I expected to come sooner or later." Combeferre's voice was gruff with effort as Enjolras thrashed beneath him. Even asleep, Enjolras was a great deal stronger than him.

"Very well, if you have it handled, I shall return to my quarters." The old man disappeared from the doorway, leaving Courfeyrac still standing there frozen.

"Courfeyrac." Combeferre said calmly, but the younger man didn't appear to hear, so he tried again and this time Courfeyrac met his eyes, "Please fetch me that chamberpot, it's under the bed. I'm going to try to wake him."

The younger man did as he asked, and stood by with the porcelain basin as Combeferre gently shook Enjolras's shoulders.

"Enjolras. Enjolras, wake up. We need you to wake up, Mon Ami." At his calming words, Enjolras seemed to relax momentarily, before tensing up and letting out a pitiful whimper that broke Combeferre's heart. Courfeyrac looked on with frightened tears cutting clear tracks down his face. Never had either of them ever seen Enjolras in such a state, appearing so vulnerable and so unquestionably human. He was their leader, and many of their other friends jokingly referred to him as the 'man of marble', or in Grantaire's case, Apollo. Enjolras was strong, he kept his emotions in check, and to see him like this frightened them both beyond belief.

"Enjolras! René, wake up!" Combeferre whispered once more. Suddenly, Enjolras's eyes flew open and he shot into a sitting position, his frightened gaze flitting wildly about the room. His chest heaved as he drew in jagged breaths. Combeferre maintained a tight grip on his friend's upper arms; Enjolras was disoriented and hadn't yet fully realized where he was.

"René," Combeferre murmured, "René, it's me, it's me, you're okay. You're safe." He desperately tried to reach Enjolras through his confusion. Finally, finally, René's searingly blue eyes cleared as he recognized his surroundings and noticed Combeferre and Courfeyrac beside him. His eyes were impossibly huge, and shone dimly in the dim moonlight from the window as he stared at Combeferre.

"Julien?" Enjolras whispered, and Combeferre's heart broke at how childish his best friend's voice sounded. He squeezed Enjolras's shoulder reassuringly, but drew his hand back as the other man flinched at his touch.

"Yes, Mon Ami, it's me, and Antoine, you're safe. We're here in Monsieur Gillenormand's house."

"Combeferre!" Courfeyrac whispered urgently, and Julien glanced quickly from him to Enjolras's face.

"'Ferre, I'm going—I think I'm—" Enjolras's face drained of all color, and he quickly grasped wildly for the chamberpot that Courfeyrac flung in front of him as he lunged closer to the bed. Enjolras sagged forward and retched, emptying his stomach's contents into the chamberpot. Combeferre reached forward to hold his blond curls away from his face, before remembering that they were no longer there, and instead carefully put his hand on his friend's back to rub soothing circles. Courfeyrac didn't comment, or even react to the potentially intimate gesture, he knew that there was nothing of the sort between the two. He knew that they viewed each other as brothers, but he also knew that there were things they had been through together that even he would never know. And he was okay with that, he knew that Enjolras had not had an easy childhood, despite his family's wealth, and he knew that Combeferre had helped keep him of sound mind when they were growing up.

Enjolras finished after a minute, and sat up, trembling from the effort of being sick. He brushed off Combeferre's hand, and took a few moments to catch his breath.

"What happened? Obviously I woke you two, at least." Enjolras inquired dryly.

"I was already awake, but, Mon Ami, you were having a nightmare. You cried out in your sleep, quite frightfully, I might add." Combeferre explained gently. Enjolras groaned in embarrassment, unsuccessfully trying to suppress a shudder as the details of his dream came rushing back.

"It's nothing to worry about, Enjolras. Monsieur Gillenormand woke up, but returned back to his chambers after we assured him you were okay. He did not seem irritated, and Marius and Jehan are both sleeping off the effects of the Laudanum. It will take a great deal more than just a yell to wake either of them up at this hour." Courfeyrac remarked, flipping his sleep-mussed brown curls out of his face. Monsieur Gillenormand had actually seemed a bit irritated at having been awoken at such an inappropriate hour, but Courfeyrac withheld this information from Enjolras. The blond man muttered something, too low for either Courfeyrac or Combeferre to hear.

"What was that, Mon Ami?" Combeferre leaned forward.

"I said, please leave." Enjolras repeated, louder this time.

Combeferre exchanged a look with Courfeyrac, neither thought it wise to leave their friend alone. He was still trembling, despite his clear efforts to control it. Whatever he had dreamed had disturbed him in a manner that Combeferre was not sure that he'd ever seen before in his friend.

"René, are you sure? Maybe if you tell us what the dream was about, we can help." Courfeyrac had a very clear idea of what the dream had been about, and didn't want to hear details, but the Enjolras he knew never acted like this, never acted so….. _vulnerable_. And it frightened Courfeyrac.

"Please, just leave me. I'm fine." There was a note of finality in Enjolras's voice, and the two stood quickly, respectful of his wishes. Combeferre briefly laid a hand on Enjolras's head, an unspoken gesture of comradeship, before following Courfeyrac out, closing the door behind him. Enjolras stared at the door for several moments, and, hearing no movement behind it, fell forward so his forehead rested against the sheets. His breath came in quick gasps as his hands tried to grasp at hair that was no longer there. His face burned as he curled his body into a tight ball.

And the Man of Marble cried. Horrible, gut-wrenching sobs that shook his entire frame. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't stop shaking. His pulse roared in his ears, and when he tried to open his eyes he felt as though he was staring through a tunnel. He squeezed them shut again.

He felt sick again, and his stomach rolled, but even as he gagged again he knew that he had already thrown up everything in his stomach. Nothing came up. Something was _choking_ him, he couldn't draw a breath in, but as he clawed at his throat, there was nothing there inhibiting his breathing. Violent tremors wracked his body.

His _friends._ _Why_ had he left them behind? _Why_ had he escaped and not them? _He_ was their leader, _he_ was the one who had all but outright planned to give his _life_ for the cause. Not them. _Not_ them. He was certain that Bahorel and Bossuet could not have escaped. Even if Bossuet had somehow gotten Bahorel out, he doubted they could have gotten far. He was haunted by Joly and Feuilly's mysterious disappearance, that neither Combeferre nor Courfeyrac or even Prouvaire had seen where they'd gone. _Where are you?_

Enjolras lay limp in his awkward position on the bed, energy spent from his body's efforts to vomit. He trembled intermittently over the course of the next few minutes. And then he just lay there, exhausted. He drew in deep breaths through his mouth, trying to catch his breath. He shakily tried to sit up, and let himself fall backwards on to his pillow. He stared at the ceiling, but didn't see it. Gradually, his breathing slowed, tremors stopped wracking his body. His eyes drooped closed, and one final thought drifted through his head before he was cloaked in sleep.

 _I will find them._

Combeferre awoke to Courfeyrac staring at him. He jolted in surprise at the sight, letting out a breath as he recovered from the shock.

"'Courf—what-?" He grasped blindly for his spectacles, not being able to see where he'd placed them on the bedside table after finally retiring back his own bed after leaving Enjolras alone. Courfeyrac pressed the wire frames into his searching hand and waited for him to shove them on his face before speaking.

"Did you look in on Enjolras before you returned to bed last night?" He wasted no time in asking.

"No, I did not. And if you did, you should not have. He asked us to leave him be." Combeferre looked at him askance, yes he'd sat on the floor outside his friend's door for several minutes and listened to him cry, but he'd not entered the room.

"I didn't go _in_ his room, Julien. I'm not an imbécile. He's not exactly a heavy sleeper."

"Well, then what did you do? What time is it anyhow?"

"It's just after six. But that's beside the point. Enjolras is a very light sleeper."

"Yes, he is. He always has been, what is your point, Antoine?" Combeferre was slightly irritated at having been woken up with only three hours of sleep.

"I opened the door, just to check on him, and the door creaked on the hinges. And he didn't even twitch. Julien, I'm worried about him. He's never been like this, never, I've known him for six years. I know that you've known him longer, and you don't seem worried. But Julien, I just-"

Courfeyrac broke off, pressing a fist over his mouth. Combeferre threw back the sheets and stood. He drew Courfeyrac into a tight embrace, and let the younger man cry on his bare shoulder. He'd slept in nothing but his borrowed trousers, they all had due to the lack of available nightclothes. After a moment, he released Courfeyrac from the embrace but kept hold of his arms, forcing him to look him in the eye.

"Antoine, of course he's never been like this before. Not one of us has ever been in this situation. He's grieving, we all are, but you have to understand. You've never seen Enjolras like this because you're so used to him rising to the occasion, meeting every obstacle with everything he has. And he still is. Every emotion, everything he feels, it consumes his entire being. Sometimes that's a bad thing, but he's learned to do so much good with it. I've known him since we were both nine years old, this is simply who he is." Julien explained, waiting for understanding to dawn in his friend's brown eyes before continuing, "Ever since he left Marseille, ever since he came to Paris and began studying Law, he has devoted his _life_ to helping people, to forming Les Amis de l'ABC. He went through so many possible outcomes of the Fight, but I can almost guarantee to you that not one of them involved him surviving when so many of our friends did not. His mind can't handle it, he needs time, and he needs us. I am worried, terribly so, but me making it obvious will only stress Enjolras further. As it is, I do not doubt he's already picked up on it."

Courfeyrac needed no further explaining, and he stared at Combeferre as he stepped out of his grasp, voicing one question.

"Is there anything we need to watch out for?"

"We need to ensure that he doesn't do anything rash." Combeferre stated bluntly, before snatching his shirt from the day before and exiting the room as he buttoned it over his torso. Courfeyrac followed him to the doorway, and watched him enter Prouvaire's room. Courfeyrac looked at the door for a moment, before turning the opposite direction, and finding himself in front of Marius's door. He turned the knob, and entered.

Marius lay awake on the bed, his eyes slits as he gazed uncomprehendingly at Courfeyrac. His freckled face was pale and covered in a sheen of sweat.

"Marius, oh Mon Ami." Courfeyrac breathed as he knelt beside the bed, grasping one of his friend's clammy palms. He grabbed a rag from the basin of water on the night table and ran it over Marius's face and chest. His friend whimpered in pain, but was too weak to do more than a failed attempt at moving his free hand over his abdomen. All he managed was a twitch of his fingers. Even to Courfeyrac's untrained eye, he could tell that an infection was starting to take hold. He remained with Marius for the next half hour, watching his friend waver between consciousness and sleep. He was quite close to the man, and it was he who had originally introduced him to Enjolras and the rest of his friends. True, Marius had not hit it off with them the first time around, after losing himself in a rant about Bonaparte. Enjolras had almost appeared ready to hit him. Courfeyrac huffed under his breath in slight amusement at the memory, even as he turned his head at the soft creak of the door opening. It was the young maid, carrying a fresh basin of water, clean rags, and the bottle of Laudanum that the doctor had left in Prouvaire's room.

"Bonjour, Mademoiselle, Avez-vous besoin d'aide?" [Good Morning, Miss, do you need any help?] he greeted the girl with a small smile, gesturing at her armload. She shook her head as she curtsied, before placing the items on the night table. She glanced at Courfeyrac before speaking.

"I've brought the laudanum from Monsieur Prouvaire's room. I figured Monsieur Pontmercy may benefit from a small dose. Your friend, the one with the spectacles, said it was alright."

Her voice was quiet, exceedingly polite, and if he had to guess, she couldn't be older than nineteen. He nodded immediately at her words, Marius looked to need some relief from the pain he was undoubtedly in, and Combeferre was the most knowledgable out of all of them besides Joly when it came to medicine.

"Yes, of course, thank you. Shall I sit him up for you?"

The maid nodded, and waited as Courfeyrac eased his friend upright.

"Easy there, Marius, I've got you Mon Ami. You have to sit up for me, can you do that? We've got to get some medicine in you, it will help you sleep." He spoke gently to the bedridden man all the while, as the maid opened the bottle of Laudanum. Marius stared dazedly at him, but parted his lips just enough for the girl to tip the spoon into his mouth. He swallowed without complaint, not even seeming to taste the bitter concoction. Courfeyrac supported him as he lay back down, tucking the blankets around him.

"Thank you, Mademoiselle." He glanced at her; she was pretty, with dark – almost black – hair twisted into a low bun under the white cap that covered her head, and large brown eyes that, at the present moment, were lowered in deference.

"You are quite welcome, Monsieur. I believe a light breakfast is being prepared downstairs, though it should be ready momentarily."

Courfeyrac took the hint and rose to leave. The girl may be shy, but she clearly wasn't taken by his mannerisms. Not that he was flirting with her, he was in no emotional state to flirt, even if he'd wanted to. He felt as though he was staring at the world through a fog, his grief draped over him like a cloak. Nonetheless, he smiled softly at the maid, squeezed Marius's hand – the now-unconscious man didn't notice – and left the room.

He found the others in the dining room downstairs, a platter of hot tea, coffee, and a tray piled with, hot, fresh croissants. His mouth was already watering at the sight of the buttery, golden pastries that had to be the size of both his fists placed side by side.

"Good Morning." He greeted amiably, taking a chair across from Combeferre and Enjolras. Monsieur Gillenormand returned the greeting from his place at the head of the table.

"The bed was to your liking, I presume? Please, help yourself, there's plenty to go around." The old man was gruff, but friendly.

"Yes, the bed and room were quite comfortable, Monsieur, I thank you." Courfeyrac replied as he filled a mug with steaming black coffee and placed one of the still-hot pastries on the China bread plate in front of him. He took a sip of the aromatic coffee, letting it's bitter taste wash away the last thread of sleep, before addressing his friends, "How did you both sleep?"

"I slept well, though I awoke once in the night to check on Prouvaire." Combeferre looked up at him, both of them purposefully ignoring the events involving Enjolras. Enjolras, for his part, studiously avoided meeting anyone else's eyes as he tore pieces off his croissant to dip into his coffee with nimble fingers.

"I slept fine. Thank you again, Monsieur, for accommodating us." Enjolras spoke without emotion, which was a rarity in and of itself.

Courfeyrac met Combeferre's eyes across the table in concern, but the older man gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head, signaling that they would talk later. He took a small bite of his croissant, and nearly had to bite back a moan at the fluffy, buttery taste. He settled for closing his eyes in rapture, and distinctly heard Combeferre chuckling low under his breath. Monsieur Gillenormand looked up curiously at the sound. Even Enjolras turned his gaze to his friend in mild interest, though his face remained stony.

"Something amusing, Young Man?" Their host intoned, quirking a bushy eyebrow.

"Nothing much, Monsieur, forgive me. I was merely watching Antoine become reacquainted with his favorite breakfast food." Combeferre replied, still laughing. Enjolras's mouth jerked in slight amusement as he looked at Antoine. Courfeyrac, for his part, flushed red and quickly swallowed the rest of the treat.

"Courfeyrac, don't you eat enough of those to not be so enthralled by them every time you eat one?" Enjolras spoke up, dryly, though with a hint of teasing in his voice. Courfeyrac was relieved at Enjolras engaging in the conversation, it wasn't much, but it was a start.

"I buy one from the baker every morning on my way to classes, but it's been quite awhile since I've had a nice batch of home-baked ones, they really don't compare." Courfeyrac defended himself good-naturedly. Combeferre grinned at his answer, knowing that his parents' home staff, namely, the women in the kitchen, often spoiled the boy with treats, unable to resist his charming mannerisms. He'd been to visit the Courfeyrac Estate with his friend enough times to notice.

"Might I inquire as to where Mademoiselle Gillenormand is this morning?" The bespectacled man spoke up, noticing the woman's absence.

"She has gone to visit some friends across the city, she should return by nightfall. She departed just before you three came downstairs." Marius's grandfather replied. Silence fell over the table as the men finished eating. One of the maids had appeared to clear the table, when Enjolras spoke up unexpectedly.

"Monsieur Gillenormand, I regret asking this favor after you have done so much for us already, but would you by chance have a horse I could borrow for the day?" Combeferre and Courfeyrac both stared at their leader, alarmed at his words.

"Whatever for, Lad?" Their host looked up from the newspaper that the butler had delivered to him several minutes before, which he'd been reading intently with a furrowed brow.

"I wish to ride to the residences of a few of our friends to see if I might be able to determine their whereabouts." René explained calmly. Combeferre, sitting to Enjolras's left and therefore out of his friend's direct line of sight as he addressed the old man, caught Monsieur Gillenormand's eye and quickly shook his head. Thankfully, the old man seemed to have already reached the same conclusion. But his next words surprised both Combeferre and Courfeyrac.

"And you can ride?" He asked.

"Oui Monsieur, I spent a great deal of time on horseback growing up. I often went hunting with my father and his acquaintances, as well as with Combeferre here, and my family keeps a small stable of hunters in addition to several harness horses and trotters." Enjolras affirmed. Indeed, he had not ridden for almost two years, not since his last brief visit home, but he withheld that particular information.

"I do have one or two that have been backed*, though my four harness horses are trained only to drive. However, they are all due to be taken to the blacksmith today to have new shoes fitted. I am sorry, Lad." The man appeared regretful, and then he slid the newspaper across the table toward the boys, "Aside from that, I would have to advise against showing your face too publicly for the time being."

Combeferre and Enjolras peered down at the paper, namely, the article on the front page.

 _ **8 June 1832**_

 _ **Insurgents sought in aftermath of rebellion**_

 _In the immediate days following the defamation of the funeral procession of General Jean Maximillien Lamarque by Republican Extremists, authorities are actively searching for a small number of insurgents who are believed to have escaped capture in the chaos. Midway through the funeral procession of decorated General Jean Maximillien Lamarque, dozens of men interrupted the procession as it passed the Place de la Bastille by running into the street and overtaking the hearse and developing a tense standoff with a regiment of the French Army that was forced to break rank from the funeral procession to talk down the Insurgents._

 _The standoff erupted into violence when the rifle of a National Guard member, Claude Babineaux, aged 23, mistakenly discharged and resulted in the death of a beggar woman. Babineaux was subsequently dragged into the street by two of the insurgents and executed._

 _Chaos ensued as the Insurgents fled the scene and subsequently formed barricades throughout the city, blocking off several streets and sending citizens fleeing for the safety of their homes. After a brief stalemate as the National Guard as well as a dispatch of the Military were organized to fend off the aggressors, the fighting was heard throughout the night._

 _Shortly after midnight of the morning of the sixth of June, it was reported that the first barricade had fallen and its occupants apprehended. By dawn, all barricades save for one had been overtaken, and the insurgents at each either arrested or killed amongst the fighting. Military and National Guard forces then focused their efforts on the final barricade, located in Saint Michel. Among the confusion, a young boy was mistakenly shot, but by mid-morning, almost all of the insurgents had been killed, despite the Guard's best efforts to take live captives. However, the leader of the Saint Michel barricade was found to have fled from the scene, likely along with a small handful of others. Among the arrested are an admitted leader of one of the barricades, Charles Jeanne, and the young man accused of starting the rebellion by stepping into the middle of the funeral procession and waving a red flag, a painter by the name of Michael Geoffroy. Citizens are advised to be on the lookout for the escaped leader of the Saint Michel barricade. He is described as having curly blond hair, standing close to five feet, ten inches, and appears to be between eighteen and twenty years of age. He was last seen wearing a red waistcoat and darkly colored trousers. If spotted, it is requested that an immediate report be made to the Prefecture of Police, and that he not be approached, as he is likely to be armed and dangerous –_

Combeferre firmly pulled the paper from Enjolras's grasp before he could finish reading. He had seen his friend's long fingers tighten on the pages as he read the clearly censored – or otherwise very ignorant – article. As he pushed the paper away, he caught glimpse another headline, mentioning the body of a Police Inspector being discovered in the Seine. His brow furrowed for just a second, before Enjolras abruptly stood.

"Excusez-moi." He pardoned, and left the room, his footsteps echoing as he climbed the stairs to the second floor.

An awkward silence enveloped the remaining three occupants of the table, until Monsieur Gillenormand spoke up.

"I don't believe I've ever laid eyes upon such a troubled lad before meeting him. He's a rather complex character, is he not?"

"Pardon, Monsieur, but Enjolras has been through a great deal, and he has taken full responsibility for the outcome of the uprising, regardless of the fact that he is not to blame. He blames himself for our failure, and he mourns for our friends. I pray tell that he will not be privy to what I am about to tell you, but he did not have an easy upbringing, despite his family's wealth. He is an only child, and his father is not a kind man. His father blames him for many things in their lives that are not Enjolras's fault, so Enjolras is quite used to shouldering other peoples' guilt. He left home at nineteen after his father dismissed him from the estate after an argument, and he started classes at the University a year later. He does not have much interaction with his family in Marseille, our friends became his family. He is not trying to be disrespectful or ungrateful in any way, but he is wary of strangers, and even more wary of strangers offering kindness." Combeferre defended his friend, though still exceedingly polite.

"And is it common for him to have episodes such as the one he had last night?"

"No, I have never seen him in such a state. I can only conclude that that dream was brought about by the extreme stress that he is currently feeling. It will pass, though I may attempt to give him a small dose of laudanum tonight to help him sleep more soundly, and not awaken the entire household again."

"Very well. My butler will be upstairs to take clothing measurements for all three of you within the hour, to take to my tailor. You all will have appropriately sized clothing by tomorrow. Please excuse me, I have some business to attend to in my study." Monsieur Gillenormand left Courfeyrac and Combeferre. Combeferre snatched the newspaper that was still lying on the table out of Courfeyrac's grasp when the younger man's gaze wandered towards it in curiosity. He'd not been able to read it sitting across from his friends.

"I do not think now is the best time for you to read that, Mon Ami." Julien folded the paper and held it in his grasp away from Courfeyrac.

"And why not? It is nothing more than a censored account of the uprising, is it not?"

"It is, yes, but they mentioned…some things….in it that I do not think would be good for you to read quite yet. Please, I only wish to prevent further heartache. I will let you read it, just not now." Combeferre pleaded, not wanting his friend to read the blatant lie about Gavroche being "mistakenly" shot. Courfeyrac, thankfully, deferred to Combeferre's sincere expression, and let the subject drop, though he was clearly still curious.

The next few days passed in a similar manner. The doctor returned to see to Prouvaire and Marius, and happily reported that both were improving. Marius had been seized with infection for two days before the fever finally broke, though Prouvaire had succumbed to fits of confusion and hallucinations during the peak of his illness. Combeferre had discovered him the morning after the incident at the breakfast table with tremors wracking his body as he stared about the room with unseeing eyes and mumbling things under his breath that made no sense to Combeferre. The doctor had been sent for immediately. Both boys were thankfully now mostly conscious and alert, though were still forbidden to leave their beds lest they tear their stitches. Prouvaire remained on the laudanum even after Marius no longer required it. Enjolras continued suffering from nightmares, and Combeferre had taken to sleeping in the chair in his room to be ready to calm him when he appeared distressed in his sleep.

Monsieur Fauchelevent visited once again, though this morning he brought along a young girl who couldn't have been more than eighteen years of age. She was exquisitely beautiful, with long golden hair that fell in loose ringlets down her back, and large cerulean eyes that shone with compassion. This was undoubtedly the Cosette that Marius had spoken so passionately of. Courfeyrac was understandably taken by her beauty, but he respected his friend, and did not attempt to even flirt with her. Combeferre was exceedingly polite, greeting the girl with a deep bow that made her giggle softly into her gloved hand. Even Enjolras, who had stayed mostly locked in his room since the mild debacle at the dining table, made an appearance to greet her. Courfeyrac and Combeferre received endless amusement from the way that the "Man of Marble", so well known for his complete and utter blindness to the lure of women, flushed red as he kissed her hand.

As the young woman was escorted up the stairs by her father, Combeferre and Courfeyrac snorted with laughter, and Enjolras turned a murderous expression towards them, though his eyes shone with a hint of mirth.

"Regardless of whatever you two may think, I do know how to conduct myself around a lady." He dead panned. Courfeyrac lost it completely then, and clapped a hand over his mouth as he chortled. Just as he'd been the first one of them to smile after their escape from the barricade, so now was he the first to truly laugh.

"Mon Ami, you – you should see your face!" The dark haired man gasped between his chuckles, "it is as red as that waistcoat you are so fond of!"

Combeferre took pity on him, knowing his friend's blush was just as much from embarrassment as intrigue, "Nothing to be ashamed of, René, she is quite a vision. Marius is a lucky man." He slung an arm around his shoulders in reassurance.

They were interrupted by Monsieur Fauchelevent descending the stairs. All three students – could they be considered students anymore? Could they even return to classes? – straightened and greeted the old man respectfully.

"I see that Monsieur Prouvaire is recovering quite nicely, as is Marius. How are you three faring? The new clothes appear to fit you all." Fauchelevent began, a bit awkwardly.

"Yes, the doctor says that Marius should be able to begin having limited time out of bed within the next day or so, provided he have use of a cane. Prouvaire requires several more days of bed rest, and we are still giving him small doses of laudanum to help with the pain. We are doing well, Monsieur. The food and proper rest have helped a great deal. We are still worried about our friends." Courfeyrac replied, with a discreet glance at Enjolras that Fauchelevent did not miss.

The blond man appeared a mere shadow of the fiery, passionate young man that he had encountered at the barricade. Then, the very weight of his intense stare had been enough to freeze someone in their tracks, and his very presence commanded respect. His golden curls had resembled a sort of halo around his head, and he truly did appear to have stepped out of a Greek myth. But the boy that now stood before him was pale, with worry lines etched into his face and dark circles under his eyes. Though he stood erect, it was as if he wasn't able to fill out his tall frame. It was the look of a lost man. A look that Fauchelevent was well familiar with, unbeknownst to the three students before him.

"No doubt you've seen the warrants out for your arrest, Monsieur Enjolras. It is risky, if not complete insanity for you to go out in the streets." He went out on a limb, not wanting to get the boys' hopes up too high.

"Monsieur, I am well aware of the risk. Truly, I am. But I must discover what has happened to the rest of our friends. I cannot go on with simply not knowing." Enjolras debated, a whisper of his former passionate dictation coloring his words. He stared Fauchelevent in the eyes; the two men were of similar height, though Enjolras, although muscular, was a good deal leaner than the older man. After a beat, Fauchelevent sighed.

"I may be able to help." He offered.

"Monsieur, you have done so much for us already. We are indebted to you." Courfeyrac thanked him, being on a more familiar basis with him than the other two. He had caught a snippet of a possible clue to the Javert encounter in the man's words. Did he have experience in avoiding arrest? He peeked at Combeferre, but the other man had not heard.

"We'll need to discuss this in a more private setting." Fauchelevent requested, his nervous air slightly alarming. Combeferre led them into the library, but left the doors open as they all sat around the polished coffee table.

"What do you have in mind, Monsieur?" Julien wasted no time, "It has only been a week since the – only a week has passed. Surely the police will still be out looking for escaped Republicans. There was a newspaper article the other day about the Uprising, they included a physical description of Enjolras."

Monsieur Fauchelevent held up a hand to stop Combeferre, "I read the newspaper, Monsieur Combeferre. But there are several holes in the description, likely due to none of the Guard having seen Enjolras up close or clearly. Yes, they got his hair correct, but his hair is now short with no noticeable volume. They pegged him to be perfectly average height, but he's several inches taller. He is not wearing the red waistcoat. The police will be on the lookout for a man who has not had the chance to rest, or clean himself up. Let alone gain access to new clothes. They have posted a guard at the plaza near the University, I am afraid. None of you will be able to return home without a very convincing story as to your absence both from classes and from your apartments. Enjolras, you not at all. They estimated your age, quite accurately, if I had to guess."

Enjolras shook his head, " _Non_ , Monsieur. They have estimated me to be quite a bit younger. I am twenty-five, soon to be twenty-six."

Monsieur Fauchelevent made a sound of surprise, "I should have guessed, for you to be in your sixth year of studies, that you would be older than what they estimated." He avoided Courfeyrac's unwavering stare, the younger man gazed at him suspiciously. He continued.

"Messieurs, my point is that Enjolras does not currently match the description of the man in the newspaper. Yes, it will still be quite risky for him to go out in the streets, but clad in new clothes the way he is, and no visible bruising or injuries, it would be unlikely, and highly so, for anyone to give him any more than a passing glance. At most, a second look. Citizens on the streets will not be actively searching for him, regardless of the description in the newspaper. As long as he can steer clear of police and any Guard members, I believe he should be relatively safe."

"And what if he happens to encounter one or more of our friends? They most certainly will appear to have been involved in the fighting. And Enjolras will be on horseback, how would he get them back here, especially if he finds more than one? He can't very well go parading them through the streets! Not to mention whether or not Marius's grandfather will even allow them to come here, he has already extended quite a bit of hospitality to us four whom he knows nothing of except that we are friends of Marius." Combeferre interjected; Enjolras could easily tell how anxious his friend was at the prospect of him being captured. He decided to intervene.

"Combeferre, I will be fine. You sound like Joly with the way you are worrying." Their missing friend's name slipped from his mouth before he could stop himself, and he felt his heart contract painfully, but he continued, "Listen, I can take a change of clean clothes in a saddle bag, along with a bit of food. If I find them I can give them the provisions, and return here to fetch the fiacre. That is, if Monsieur Gillenormand would permit it."

"If I would permit what?" The elderly man's voice sounded in the doorway, and they all looked up to see him enter with the young Mademoiselle, Cosette. All four men stood immediately at her entrance, she went immediately to her father, who gently took her hand and kissed it. Enjolras cleared his throat, looking at their host.

"If you would, Monsieur, permit me to borrow one of your horses to go out in the city for the day? I aim to uncover information regarding the whereabouts of some of our friends." He inquired with a respectful incline of his head. He was slowly beginning to trust the man, though he was still wary of him.

"They have all received new shoes and are sound for riding…..but Lad, I must reiterate how unwise it would be to go out in the streets." M. Gillenormand deliberated.

"I have thought extensively through all of the risks, Monsieur, and believe it is well worth it. I do not at the moment closely match the description of me from the newspaper, and my name has not been made public knowledge as of yet. Please, Monsieur, I will return before sundown."

"What do you think of this proposition, Monsieur Fauchelevent? Surely, you must have an opinion, you said you spent time with these boys at their barricade while rescuing Marius." M. Gillenormand looked at the grey-haired man.

"I believe you raise a valid concern, Monsieur. It will be risky for Monsieur Enjolras to go out in the streets. However, I was quite privileged to witness the close friendship that all of these young men share during my brief time at the Barricade, and they are close as brothers would be. These missing boys, I think it would do a great disservice to them if no attempt at recovering them were made. And it would bring great peace of mind to these three, I know, as well as our two friends upstairs, to know what has become of their friends." Fauchelevent sided with the boys, though he managed to seem to get through to the stubborn old man in a way that the students had been unable.

"Very well, I will have a horse prepared for you. I must warn you though, both of the riding horses I keep are very highly bred animals, of racing lineage. Very sensitive, and highly trained creatures. I expect you'll be wanting a bit of food to take along as well for a noon meal." Marius's grandfather consented gruffly.

"My sincerest thanks, Monsieur. I assure you, a hot horse will be no trouble. I am indebted to you once again. I'd wish to depart as quickly as possible." René bowed deeply, showing upmost respect to the man.

"It is no trouble. The horse will enjoy the exercise, at the very least. It has been quite some time since they have had a competent rider aboard. The stable boy has been riding them both for the past year in Marius's absence, and he was never taught to properly ride, I am afraid. Go on then, the stables are located out the back behind the garden." The elderly man took his leave.

Enjolras met Combeferre and Courfeyrac's eyes.

"I need to fetch a set of clothes from my room, and change into a pair of boots and don an overcoat. Combeferre, would you go to the kitchen please and see if you can have the cook pack me some cheese and bread, as well as a cask of water? Just tell her that it is for my noon meal. Courfeyrac, will you help me carry the supplies out to the stables?" He asked quickly, not wanting to waste any time. The two complied instantly, and Enjolras thanked Fauchelevent once more and bowed to Cosette as he and Courfeyrac left the room.

He quickly switched out his footwear; tall boots were better for riding than the dress shoes he currently wore, and Courfeyrac tossed him a long overcoat – very similar to the one Combeferre had worn during the funeral, only this one was light grey, which he donned atop the dark green vest he wore over his shirtsleeves.

"I don't need a hat." He said upon seeing Courfeyrac reach for the hat boxes that sat untouched on the shelf in the wardrobe. He'd never been one for hats, save for the occasional cap that most of his friends wore, and was not about to start now. His friend put the box down, instead focusing on folding a pair of trousers, along with a shirt and vest while Enjolras tied a navy cravat around his neck.

"You will be back by sundown, right? I worry, René." Courfeyrac began as they set off down the stairs and in the direction of the stable. Enjolras clapped a hand on the shorter man's back.

"I will be fine, Courf. I've learnt a few things about avoiding attention from Feuilly and – and some of the others." Enjolras stopped Gavroche's name from slipping out at the last second. "Besides, I look more Bourgeois than 'rowdy schoolboy' at the moment. Not to mention, I'll be on horseback, the gendarmes likely will be watching for someone who is on foot." He added, a bit scornfully.

The tangy but pleasant aroma of hay and leather surrounded the two as they passed out of the garden and entered the stable. Combeferre was already there, with a cloth-wrapped bundle in his hands. There were eight stalls, all but one occupied. Enjolras recognized the two bright bay geldings who had been used to bring them here last week, and passed his eyes over the other stalled horses. Two heavier-boned geldings – he figured this pair to be the other harness horses – and a finely built dark bay mare that was clearly used for riding rather than driving. A man who could only be assumed to be the groom, stood in the seventh stall, expertly running a curry over the hide of the horse Enjolras could tell he would be using. He moved closer to inspect the creature with a trained eye. The chestnut gelding was tall, with a deep chest and a finely chiseled head. His slim legs were straight and tied nicely into his shoulders and hindquarters. His mane was pulled to braiding length, and Enjolras watched the animal track him with an intelligent eye.

"He seems placid now, but I can assure you, he's a firebrand under saddle! Wondering why Monsieur did not offer you Cendre, she's the mare. Excitable but not as difficult as this one." The groom spoke up as he quickly saddled the gelding. The horse flicked his ears behind him at the man's voice, but lowered his head obediently for the bridle, easily accepting the bit as it slid between his teeth. Enjolras eyed the harsh port on the metal bit severely, taking in the curb chain being fastened under the animal's chin.

"A hot horse is no trouble at all, I am well used to the antics of young horses. How old is he?"

"He's five years, Monsieur. Arrived here from the countryside near Lyon about a year and a half ago."

"Five." Enjolras repeated, the horse was _young_. Could only have been broke to the saddle a short time before being bought by M. Gillenormand. He looked at the groom, "Is there a gentler bit that could be used?"

The groom gaped at him, "Are you serious, Monsieur? Even Monsieur Marius rode him in the port."

"I am very serious, Citizen." Combeferre and Courfeyrac looked on as Enjolras stood tall, and his intimidating air emanating off of him in full force as he stared at the groom. The man did not protest further, and disappeared to find a different bit. Enjolras stripped the bridle off the gelding, a corner of his mouth lifting in satisfaction as the horse made chewing motions with his mouth, clearly happy to be rid of the harsh bit. He turned to Combeferre and Courfeyrac.

"Marius is a fool if he rode this horse with this. No wonder the horse appears hot; he came from the country, where he likely lived mostly on pasture. Now he's here, in the city, stalled every day with no way of expelling his energy. This is no place for such a highly bred animal." He nearly spit.

"Not everyone has grown up being taught to correctly handle horses, René. You and I are lucky, our family's horses have access to pasture, and are ridden regularly for hunting, and we were both taught from a young age to be adept riders. It is a matter of circumstance." Combeferre calmly reminded his friend. He decided to use Courfeyrac as an example. "Courf, can you ride?"

The younger man looked at him in surprise, "I can, yes. But I was only taught the basics when I was a child. My family only keeps four driving horses for the fiacre and coach."

"You see my point, René. Here in the city, horses are used for transportation only, not like in Marseille where they are also used for pleasure."

"It still does not excuse it." Enjolras dead panned as the groom returned with a simple snaffle that he quickly replaced the ported bit with.

"Merci. What is his name?" Enjolras inquired as he led the horse from his stall and out of the stable.

"Beau. He came with the name, and it certainly fits him. He is handsome in appearance, at least."

"Thank you." Enjolras held the horse while his friends placed the clothes and food in the saddlebags buckled behind the well-made saddle. He swung aboard, and immediately Beau began to mouth the bit nervously and shift his weight. Enjolras sat deeper into the saddle, and calmed the animal with a brief pat on the neck.

"Enjolras." He looked down at Combeferre as he heard his name. The bespectacled man wore a worried expression, but he knew his friend wouldn't argue with him anymore.

"I shall be back before dinner." Enjolras gathered the reins, and tightened his calves around the horse. Beau instantly launched into a springy trot as the pair entered the street from the gate behind the house. René calmly gave the gelding his head and posted in time with the two-beat gait, rather than forcing him to walk. Better to let him expel a bit of energy now than have him exhaust himself from anxiousness later in the ride. It was close to eleven o'clock, and the streets were already bustling with activity, the crowd becoming thicker the closer he got to the high end marketplace that was closest to the Gillenormand estate.

Despite him brushing off his friends' concerns for his safety, Enjolras was on edge. He felt as though all eyes were trained on him. Indeed, people were staring, though not for the reason he feared. No, they were staring at his mount.

Beau had become increasingly nervous the thicker the crowds became. Enjolras forced himself to relax, knowing that his own tension in the saddle would not help the horse to relax. He spoke quietly to the young gelding as he champed the bit nervously, his mouth foaming up at the action, and his copper hide darkening with sweat. Enjolras sat quietly, keeping the reins loose as the animal pranced. He kept him moving forward, attempting to focus Beau's attention back on him. The poor creature flicked his ears back in response to his rider, and calmed somewhat, finally slowing to a walk as they moved past the plaza center. Enjolras praised him, and kept his steely gaze trained in front of him amid the claustrophobic mix of foot and carriage traffic. Thankfully his mount's antics had caused the crowd to give him a bit more space, and he used the extra room to his advantage as he aimed to exit the crowd at the opposite end of the plaza. He could feel Beau's muscles under his hide, hard as a rock from his anxiety, but the young gelding remained at a walk, until they were almost free of the crowd, and a loud crash sounded from the left side of the street as a carter mistakenly lost his hold on a stack of crates, and they fell to the cobblestones. Enjolras had scarcely a second to react before Beau was dancing on his hind legs. The crowd pressed back away from the rearing horse. Enjolras had thrown himself forward as the horse's front hooves left the pavement, pressing his knuckles into his mane, using his body weight to force the animal back down.

"Easy. Easy, Lad. Tout va bien. [Everything is fine.]" René soothed, running a hand over the horse's neck. He was not angry, the horse was young, and there had clearly been no valid attempt made at desensitizing him to the bustle of the city.

"Problème avec votre cheval, Monsieur? [Trouble with your horse, Sir?]" A voice drew his attention, and his heart leapt into his throat as he located the speaker.

A police officer had appeared from seemingly nowhere, and held Beau by the cheekpiece of his bridle. Enjolras swallowed his anxiety, and calmly met the man's eyes.

"Non, Monsieur. Il est jeune, pas encore utilisé à l'activité de la ville . C'est tout. [No, Sir. He is young, not yet used to the activity of the city. That is all.]" Enjolras replied, hoping that the officer did not pick up on the slight tremor in his voice, or if he did that he merely contributed it to the strain of keeping the horse under control.

The horse's eyes rolled, and his loud breaths filling the space between the two men, though he did not fight the hand that held his bridle. The gendarme stared at Enjolras.

"Have we met before? Your face seems familiar." The uniformed man inquired. Enjolras thanked God in that moment for the level of control he had over his facial expressions, and merely furrowed his brow in feigned confusion.

"I do not believe so, Monsieur. I am not from Paris, I am only here on business." Enjolras tested out the far-fetched truth. It was true, he _wasn't_ from Paris, and his "business" had, up until last week, been attending the University.

"What is your business, may I ask?"

"Fan making. I am here scouting local shops to see what fan designs seem most popular." Enjolras made the lie up as he went, thinking of Feuilly. _Why_ couldn't this Police officer let him alone? He went out on a limb, "Forgive me, Monsieur. I really should be getting my horse here away from the crowds, I do not wish to agitate him further."

Thankfully, Beau chose that moment to wrench his head to the side and begin pawing the pavement impatiently with a foreleg, the steel shoe nailed to his hoof ringing as it struck the cobblestones. Enjolras made a show of correcting the animal, forcing him to stand still, and giving the gendarme what he hoped was an apologetic look.

"Of course, good day to you, Monsieur." The officer released Beau's bridle, and Enjolras did not have to persuade the horse to step quickly away. He clicked his tongue and Beau picked up a ground-eating trot that he posted comfortably to, ignoring the policeman's eyes boring suspiciously into the back of his head. He exited the plaza at the first opportunity, and soon found himself nearing the University. He turned down another street, recalling Fauchelevent's warning about a gendarme being posted in the University Plaza. He was most definitely not in the mood for a second encounter with the police. The first had unnerved him more than he was willing to admit.

There were still a good number of people in the streets, though not near the volumes that occupied the various marketplaces and squares. Beau was still highly alert, but had calmed exponentially since exiting the plaza near the Gillenormand estate, and now moved at a flat footed, collected walk. The horse was _class_ , and Enjolras hadn't even ridden him faster than a trot before coming to this conclusion. He didn't think the Gillenormands knew exactly what this creature's potential was. He'd have to inquire about taking the horse out of the city at some point and really see what he was capable of.

The blond man was drawn from his thoughts as he realized how close he was to the Prefecture du Police. He turned a corner on to a wider street, and there it was. Even the building was imposing from its spot overlooking the Seine. He could see the Pont au Change just a little way past the Prefecture. Even from here, he could see the distant forms of police officers posted at the edge of the bridge. He gritted his teeth and rode closer; the site of the barricade was across that bridge and he _had_ to reach it. As he approached, he noticed that there was, mercifully, a good deal of coach traffic, and the gendarmes were letting the majority of pedestrians and men on horseback across the bridge without inspection, in favor of checking the carts and fiacres.

Enjolras felt Beau begin to tense up as they approached the crowd, and he gave the horse a firm tug of the reins, waiting until Beau yielded to the pressure before releasing. He was filled with trepidation as he nudged the horse forward, but he nonetheless turned his head and nodded respectfully to the gendarme closest to him. The officer stared hard at him, his expression calculating, but then waved a hand in a signal for René to go on his way. He trotted onward across the bridge, releasing a sigh of relief as Beau reached the noticeably more uneven and dirty cobblestones on the opposite side. He kept riding along familiar streets, taking his normal route to the Musain.

All too soon, he reached it. Even before he made the final turn he could smell the residual gun smoke that still lingered a week and a half later, and he steeled himself as he turned on to the Place du Pont-Saint-Michel. The street had been scrubbed clean of the blood, and the bodies of the National Guardsmen cleared away. The barricade still stood at the end of the street, appearing a sentry to the entrance of the Musain. He held Beau at a walk, and approached cautiously. Upon closer inspection, he realized that in fact nearly half of the barricade had been dismantled, and he halted Beau when he reached it. The horse stood obediently as he dismounted, the thud of his boots hitting the pavement echoing across the eerily quiet street. He took the reins over the horse's head and led him around to the other side of the barricade. _Their_ side. And he was sick almost instantly when he glanced into the alley to his right. He retched, his stomach ejecting the breakfast he'd eaten only four hours prior.

A number of his comrades still lay lined up side by side on the pavement, the stench of decay clouding the air. Every instinct in him screamed to stay back, and Beau's eyes rolled apprehensively at the smell. But he had to know. He had to know if any of his friends were among them. He risked looping the horse's reins over the leg of an upturned chair lying in the street, and cautiously entered the alley. He held a hand over his mouth and nose, noticing that a number of the bodies had been claimed, as there were large gaps interrupting the line of fallen men. Tears streamed from his eyes as he inspected each man, both from grief and from the odor. Then, a familiar face. His heart clenched hard as he stared down at the face of Bahorel. He fell to his knees and tried to steady his breathing. He couldn't bring himself to form any coherent words, so he didn't try. He bowed his head and took one of the man's stiff hands in his own for just a moment, before releasing it gently and forcing himself to stand. Tears clouded his vision, and he roughly wiped them away. There was the emaciated form of that pitiful gamine, who had followed Marius around like a lost puppy, Éponine. She had thrown herself in front of a rifle aimed at Marius and taken the shot. She had been the first to fall. He looked away, and froze immediately.

There, beside Éponine. A form far, far too small to belong to a student or workingman. A mess of tangled, dirty blond hair. _Gavroche._ Enjolras knelt slowly before him, his heart throbbing painfully, and reached a hand out to gently clear the hair out of the boy's face. Someone had closed his eyes. The gamin had been so pure, so full of life and adventure. The Amis had basically adopted the child, Courfeyrac most of all, and Enjolras remembered how stubbornly Gavroche had argued with him on the topic of being allowed a gun. How affronted he'd been when Enjolras refused, saying that he could have one only after all of the grown men were armed! Enjolras remembers sitting alongside Combeferre shortly before the fighting began. They'd been listening to the distant trill of one of Gavroche's little songs, and Combeferre had realized the warning entwined within the song. Gavroche had, not a minute later, come flying over the barricade and into their midst, exclaiming the arrival of the National Guard and all but commanding he be permitted a gun, sending their comrades scrambling into action.

' _Would you like my carbine?' Enjolras asked, already reaching for the short-barreled rifle to hand over. Gavroche had looked at him askance._

' _I want a big gun!' The boy cried, and before Enjolras could stop him, he'd hefted the spy Javert's gun into his grip._

 _Combeferre chuckled beside him, 'The lad is persistent, you have to give him that.'_

' _Or foolhardy. I ought to send him away.' Enjolras retorted as the two readied their weapons._

' _He wouldn't listen, you know that. Besides, Antoine is looking after him, you know how he feels about the boy.'_

 _Indeed, Courfeyrac had drawn the gamin close where he could keep an eye on him, and took a hand off of his own rifle as they looked on to affectionately muss the child's dirty hair._

A strangled sound dragged Enjolras from his recollection, and after a moment, he realized that the sound had come from him, and that it was a sob. He pressed a first over his mouth to stifle the sound. His gaze suddenly caught on something, something that had not been there during the fighting. Nestled into the boy's ragged shirt vest, pinned to the threadbare fabric, lay a medal attached to a scarlet ribbon. The medal loosely resembled a flower, of sorts, the center was gold, with a white five-pointed Maltese Cross atop it, and mounted on a bronze wreath. A crown insignia was the attaching piece between the medal and the red ribbon. Enjolras's breath caught in his throat.

This wasn't just any medal. This was a _Légion d'Honneur_ medal. The highest military award that could be received. Enjolras brushed his fingers over it in confusion. The medal was clearly not new, though it had been kept in near pristine condition. Who had pinned it here? Surely none of the Guardsmen had done it. Enjolras's blood boiled even now as he recalled the way they had made a game out of shooting at the gamin, as he, Combeferre, Bossuet and Joly had struggled to restrain Courfeyrac once the younger man had realized what was happening. Even the Guard Commander had appeared horrified at the actions of his troops when the little boy fell.

He gazed down at the little boy's face once before and brushed a hand over his cold brow before standing. He moved on down to the end of the line, and it was there that he almost collapsed in horror.

Bossuet and Feuilly lay side by side. Enjolras blinked furiously, his brain struggling to comprehend. He staggered back against the wall of the alleyway, and slowly slid down until he was sitting on the filthy cobblestones. He expelled quick breaths, squeezing his eyes shut. He couldn't grieve here. He _couldn't._ He was already risking his safety by being here in the first place. But he couldn't get up. He could only stare numbly at his two dear friends, even though his friends weren't _there._

Finally, he managed to get his feet beneath him, and he stumbled out of the alley, desperate to get away from this horrible scene. As he hurried mounted Beau once more, the gelding appeared to sense his distressed state, and did not raise any antics. But as he prepared to leave the site, a flash of movement inside the ruined Musain caught his eye, and he leapt off the horse once more. He left the reins trailing on the ground, hoping the creature would stay put, and stepped through the threshold into the popular café. Or what had been a café. He saw the rough ladder that the Guard had constructed to reach the second floor in their quest to apprehend Enjolras and the other three. But it was the short, overweight, ruddy cheeked woman that drew his eye. The two locked eyes for several seconds, until Enjolras broke the silence.

"Madame Hucheloup?" He whispered hesitantly. The woman was upon him instantly, embracing him tightly, knocking the wind out of him. He carefully returned the gesture, but then was shocked by a sharp swat on his arm. He stared down into the woman's furious face, astonished.

"Do you _realize_ just how worried I have been? To see you, Messieurs Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Prouvaire disappear inside here, and the National Guard go in after you. I heard nothing after that. Save for one gunshot. They brought Monsieur Bossuet out after that, along with Monsieur Bahorel. They laid them in the alley, and –"

"I know, Madame. I saw them just now, along with Feuilly." Enjolras cut her off, knowing it was rude but not wishing to hear more about his friends' demise. The woman's face softened at hearing the grief so plainly audible in René's voice.

"I saw the newspaper, and they said you escaped. But I heard nothing after that." She finished, taking his hands in her own, lowering her voice lest there be a wrong pair of ears in the area.

"Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Prouvaire got out with me. We climbed through the rear window on the second floor. But Prouvaire was injured quite badly, though he's on the mend now. Marius lives as well, and is recovering." Enjolras replied in an equally low tone.

Madame looked relieved; she had treated the boys like her own sons. They alone had kept her in business after her husband passed. The wine had turned bad and the food worse, but still they kept returning. They all continued to pay for their meals and drinks, in addition to drawing in more customers. Even despite the destruction, one thing still remained of the boys' jovial times spent there.

 _Regale si tu peux et mange si tu l'oses [Treat if you can, eat if you dare.]_ Courfeyrac had written in the doorway in chalk. Madame never tried to remove it, nor did she plan to.

"I came here looking for our friends, Madame. I had to know what became of them. I found Bossuet, Feuilly, and Bahorel. But I cannot find Joly or – or Grantaire." He explained gently. He stumbled over including the drunkard's name, but found himself unable to leave him out.

"Monsieur Grantaire fell asleep drunk the final night, I believe. He was unconscious in that corner there." Madame Hucheloup replied, gesturing to the rear right corner of the room, "The Guardsmen for him, of course, and they woke him up. I think they were fully prepared to execute him where he sat, but the effect of his drink must not have worn off completely. Either that or he is a very good actor, but he somehow convinced them that he had been unconscious there since before the barricade formed, that he was not involved with you lot. They let him go. He came back here once after the fighting was over, and – and –" the woman broke off, her chin quivering as she tried to hold back tears at the memory.

"What happened, Madame?" Enjolras pressed quietly.

"I do not think I have ever seen such a broken man, Monsieur. When he saw the alleyway, he appeared to lose his mind. I have never heard a sound akin to the one he made exit another man's mouth. He went to his knees in the middle of the street and just wailed. He sounded like an animal. He had a bottle of absinthe in his hand at the time, and he stared at it for a time, as if he'd never seen it before. And then he just flung it away to the side. I have not seen him since, but he cannot be far from here if he's still about."

Enjolras gaped at the woman. The Grantaire she was describing was a Grantaire that he'd not known existed. The Grantaire he knew was cynical, sarcastic. He was apathetic, scornful of seemingly everything. More often than not he and the other Amis had arrived for meetings to find him slumped in a corner nursing a hangover, or worse yet they had cut meetings short to go track him down where he'd wandered off in drunken stupor. The black haired man seemed to delight in antagonizing Enjolras, and Enjolras often could not bite his tongue against a sharp retort. Come to think of it, Enjolras could not recall any time in which Grantaire had been completely sober; a bottle of spirits always seemed to be either in his grasp or within reach of his person.

He looked at Madame Hucheloup again, "And….Joly? Did you see him?"

"I did. He must have used the rear exit, he came around from that direction. Poor lad was absolutely traumatized. From what I could gather, he was right next to Feuilly when he fell. I managed to get him away and I took him with me to Musichetta's apartment. I have been lodging there until I can get my own room in here repaired. He is still there, she has been doting on him like a mother would a child, as you can imagine." She smiled at being able to give him some good news.

Enjolras's shoulders slumped in relief, "May you take me to him? I have to see him!"

He knew he sounded slightly manic, but the thought that one of his missing friends was most certainly alive was almost too much for him to bear. The kindly woman took his hand and led him outside, where Beau was thankfully still waiting.

"Where did you get him?" Madame Hucheloup sounded surprised at the sight of the handsome gelding. Enjolras snagged the reins in his free hand.

"He belongs to Marius's grandfather." He explained lowly, with a furtive glance around them, "He has opened his home to us in thanks for Marius being brought to him. He does not quite seem like the man that Marius so oft described. I don't quite trust the man yet, but I believe we are safe there, and he paid in full for a doctor to treat Prouvaire and Combeferre's injuries."

"What a blessing, indeed, Monsieur." Madame spared the horse an admiring glance as they walked, Enjolras led the animal behind him. "This way, she lives down this street." She added, turning a corner on to a narrow street.

Enjolras followed behind her, gazing around at the tired buildings that lined this street. They were not quite to the slums yet, but this was definitely on the lower side of the working class. Madame stopped in front of a grey-painted wooden door.

"You can tie the horse at the lamppost; you aren't in danger of anyone stealing him in this part of town." She instructed, and Enjolras loosened the girth on the saddle to give Beau a bit more comfort after he looped the reins loosely around the lamp. He all but run through the door and up the stairs after Madame, catching up with her as she paused in front of a door on the third floor. She knocked once before opening it.

"Musichetta, may you please tell Joly to come out of the bedroom? Tell him I've brought him something." She entered the tenement, and beckoned Enjolras inside. He stepped over the threshold into the small apartment, and caught a glimpse of Musichetta's dark wavy hair as the young woman disappeared through a doorway into one what were clearly two bedrooms. He swallowed nervously as he heard her voice, and Joly's response. His friend sounded so different than the cheerful hypochondriac he was used to.

"Please tell Madame Hucheloup that I am not in the mood for anymore apple tarts." He heard his friend say in a strained, flat voice.

"I think you will like this much better than apple tarts, Ma très chère. [My dearest.]" Musichetta's gentle reply floated through the open doorway. Enjolras looked over at Madame Hucheloup in concern, his full lips turned down. The older woman smiled reassuringly.

The muted padding of bare feet on the wooden floor drew his attention back to the bedroom doorway. He held his breath; the tread was too heavy to be Musichetta.

"You wished to see me, Madame?" Joly appeared in the doorway. Enjolras was rooted in place as he stared at the pale form of his friend. Then the medical student looked up, and his eyes settled on Enjolras. He froze, his eyes almost popping out of the sockets, and his jaw went slack in surprise. The two stared at each other, and then Enjolras crossed the room in one long stride, nearly tackling the leaner man. They clung to each other, sobbing in relief.

"Joly!" Enjolras relished the sound of the name on his tongue.

"Enjolras, Mon Ami!" Joly pulled out of the embrace to look at him, keeping his hands on his shoulders. His hazel eyes, which had only moments before been clouded with grief and heartache, now shone with relief.

"I thought you dead. I could not find you at the barricade." Enjolras admitted, his tears finished. Despite the horrid sight of the remaining Amis in the alleyway, finding Joly filled him with a suffocating glow of happiness.

"I did not know what happened to you and the others. I thought myself the only survivor. Feuilly…."

"I know." Enjolras saved the man from having to complete the statement.

His friend gazed at him for a moment, and hesitantly reached a hand out as if he meant to touch Enjolras's head, but refraining.

"Your hair." He stated, though it was more an inquiry than anything.

"I had to cut it." Enjolras replied plainly, fingering the shorn golden strands that he no longer had to keep tied back to prevent it from obstructing his vision.

"Enjolras, where— did anyone else escape?" Joly stuttered, his eyes pleading.

"Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Prouvaire got out with me. Pontmercy is alive as well. We have been provided with lodging at Marius's grandfather's estate across the river. This is the first chance I've had to get out in the streets to search for you. Joly…..Bossuet and Bahorel did not make it."

"I know. I saw the Guard bring them out of the café." Joly replied somberly. The two were silent for a moment. Then Musichetta appeared beside the brown haired man, her eyes filled with tears at the mention of Bossuet.

"I can brew some tea, if you both would like?" She asked, laying a small hand on Joly's forearm.

"No, thank you, Mademoiselle. It is approaching sundown, I swore to Combeferre and the others that I would return by nightfall." Enjolras declined politely with a regretful tone. He looked once more at Joly, who appeared frightened at the prospect of Enjolras having to take his leave so soon. Enjolras glanced at him, then continued.

"Which brings me to my other question. Joly, when I set out this morning, I set out with the intention of finding our friends and taking them back to Monsieur Gillenormand's home with me. It is the safest place at the present moment for us to be. You have not read the newspaper, I gather?"

Joly appeared to be with him so far, "You are in hiding. There is a warrant out for your arrest, I presume, that's been published in the newspaper?"

"Yes, and the police are still on quite the fervent lookout to arrest any and all _insurgents_ they find." Enjolras scowled at how the Republicans were being described by the government, "Mon Ami, I have to ask if you will return with me."

Joly looked at Musichetta, appearing torn. Enjolras could tell that his friend did not want to leave Musichetta, but he was not leaving the tenement without him.

"Combeferre and Courfeyrac are both quite anxious to see you. Prouvaire and Marius as well, though they are still bedridden with their injuries. Musichetta will not be lonely here with Madame Hucheloup. And they both will be safer if you are not here, Mon Ami. What if the police were to get wind of your presence here? Musichetta could be arrested for harboring a fugitive." He dealt a low blow, he knew, but he also knew that bringing up Musichetta's level of safety would be the quickest way to get his friend to go with him.

"What of my clothing? I cannot go outside like this, I'd be arrested immediately when a police officer spots me!" Joly countered, gesturing to his shirt and trousers. Indeed, he was wearing the same clothes at the barricade, though with the addition of a vest, cravat and brown waistcoat.

"I have brought along a clean shirt and trousers. They will be a bit loose on you, but they are better than that. You cannot have been wearing these clothes for the past week and a half?" Enjolras asked.

"I've not exactly had the opportunity to return home for a clean wardrobe." Joly retorted, a tad shortly.

"Of course not, Mon Ami. I apologize, I was not passing judgement." Enjolras stared at Joly, his impossibly blue eyes imploring the other man to come with him. Joly sighed after several moments, dropping his gaze, but then looking up to meet Enjolras's eyes.

"Yes. I will come with you."


	5. Chapter 5

_**Bonjour! I am so sorry this chapter took me so long, I could not for the life of me find time to write! This could be considered a bit of a filler, but things will pick up next chapter! My description of savate is courtesy of Wikipedia, though it's in my own words. Please Rate and Review, I'd love to hear what y'all think of this so far and if there's anything I can improve on! Enjoy!**_

"These will be a bit large on you, but they will do." Enjolras dropped the folded shirt and trousers on the narrow bed in Musichetta's apartment. Joly nervously wrung his hands as he looked on.

"You are certain of this, Enjolras?" The shorter man queried. Enjolras, for his part, simply turned with a raised brow and gazed at him with a level stare. He'd given the parcel of cheese and bread to Musichetta and Madame Hucheloup, along with the cask of water. He doubted either one of them had ever come into possession of such rich food. Sure, bread and cheese was a commonplace meal anywhere, but of course the best quality cheeses and breads were only able to be afforded by the upper class. The women had thanked him profusely, though as was his habit, he'd brushed it off modestly.

"Enjolras, you mentioned having ridden here on horseback. There are two of us, and one horse." Joly pointed out; the medical student's logical thought process often rivaled Combeferre's. This statement gave Enjolras pause, for he had not considered that particular obstacle. His ever-calculating mind only needed a fraction of a second to come up with a solution.

"We shall both walk. I will lead the horse afoot." He decided, turning away as his friend quickly stripped out of his filthy clothing and donned quickly the clean garments to give him some semblance of privacy.

"And what if we are questioned as to why we are walking? Or asked where we are going?" Joly continued, his natural nervousness coloring his words. Enjolras turned a stony glare on him.

"Should we be questioned as to why we are walking, it shall be said that the horse appeared lame from traveling over the pavement. As to our destination, listen close. I was stopped by a gendarme on my way here, I told him that I was a fan maker from outside Paris, and that I had come here on business to discover what the most popular designs were." His face remained impassive as he explained, but his insides broke at his cover story with its reference to Feuilly, "You are an apprentice I happened across who offered to peruse some of my work."

Joly nodded, his face contorting as, clearly, he'd been invaded by thoughts of the gentle, passionate fan painter. Enjolras shed some of his impassive air, and laid a comforting hand on Joly's shoulder. He was not much one for tactile comfort, but he had become more accustomed to it over the past few years since moving to Paris and meeting all of his friends. Joly calmed at his touch, and turned to face him.

"We will be okay, Joly. Do you not still trust me? I would not recklessly endanger you." René assured him, "Come, we must set off, the sun will be setting in less than two hours, and it will take us longer than that to reach the other side of the city. I want to have your shoulder looked examined as soon as possible." He finished, referring to the district of the city where M. Gillenormand's estate lay, and gesturing to Joly's bandaged shoulder. The young man had admitted to being shot after Musichetta had fussed about it. He led the way into the parlor, though this salon was a far cry from the luxury and elegance of M. Gillenormand's home.

"Mesdames, j'ai peur que nous devons prendre nos congés. Vous exigerons pour quoi que se soit? [Ladies, I am afraid we must take our leave. Will you be requiring anything?]" Enjolras inquired politely to the two dark haired women.

"No, Monsieur, though we thank you once again for the food." Musichetta rose from the threadbare sofa, and went quickly to Joly. The medical student drew her into a tender embrace, and leaned down to press his lips to hers. Enjolras looked away from the pair in embarrassment, and turned to Madame Hucheloup.

"Madame, I cannot thank you enough for everything you have done for us over the years. I am forever indebted to you. If you are willing, once it is safer for our friends and I to be out in the streets, please do not hesitate to contact us so that we might be of some assistance in repairing the Musain. It is the least we could do." He took one of her weathered hands into his own and bowed. The middle-aged woman was such a motherly figure to all of the Amis, and he was eternally grateful for the support she had shown them all.

"Monsieur Enjolras, ever the gentleman. I will certainly take you up on your offer when the time is right, thank you." She replied with a smile, "Now go, I know what a state Combeferre can work himself into when it comes to your wellbeing."

A corner of his mouth lifted at her words, and he turned to Joly, who thankfully had finished saying goodbye to his mistress, "Let's be off then. Are you ready?"

"Yes." Joly stepped away from Musichetta with difficulty, and Enjolras had to resist rolling his eyes at how smitten the medical student was with the young woman. He glanced at her as he guided Joly towards the door.

"I would strongly suggest disposing of his clothes, as well as any other signs of him having been here. I would not put it past the police to soon start going from door to door searching for ' _insurgents'."_

"I'll do that. Thank you, Monsieur Enjolras. I know this is for his safety." Musichetta replied. Enjolras gave her a firm nod, and led Joly from the apartment. The two glanced warily about the street as they exited the building. Enjolras retrieved Beau from where the horse was tied to the lamp post, and Joly fell into step alongside him as they set off down the street. They were mostly silent, and when they reached the site of the barricade, they pointedly averted their eyes from the alleyway. And all the while, Enjolras kept watch for gendarmes and National Guard members.

Combeferre peered out the front window of the salon for what seemed like the thousandth time. The sun had set over a half hour prior, and Enjolras had yet to return. He'd disliked the idea of Enjolras going out from the start, but had known that his friend would not be swayed in his decision. So for the past seven hours, the bespectacled man had scarcely left the salon, save to check in on Prouvaire and Marius once.

"I knew he should not have gone out. He never listens, why does he never listen?" He began muttering to himself, shoulders tense as he drew back the heavy curtains once more to scan the darkening street.

"Who is this, and where might I find Combeferre?" Courfeyrac's voice reached his ears, though it was laced with concern, and Combeferre turned to look at him.

"Enjolras has not returned." He stated the obvious.

"So I've noticed." Courfeyrac replied with a furrowed brow. This was one of the few times he'd ever seen Combeferre so unraveled – the older student was normally so calm that he almost seemed detached in some situations – though Courfeyrac was quickly growing more concerned by the minute. "Do you think -?"

"I am about to go out and find him myself." Combeferre spurned the thought of Enjolras being apprehended by police.

"No, Combeferre!" A new voice interjected, and the two whirled to face the staircase. Prouvaire had somehow managed to make his way halfway down the stairs, though his face was pained and he was balanced on only one leg.

"Jehan! What are you doing?" Combeferre exclaimed, rushing over to their friend.

"I'm fine. My leg hardly hurts." The poet protested, but Combeferre shook his head in concern, seeing clearly through the words. His friend's eyes were pinched and his jaw was clenched, betraying his discomfort.

"You shouldn't be down here. Come, let's get you back in bed."

"If you think me fool enough to not have figured out that Enjolras has gone out to search for our friends, then we need to have a serious discussion. I will not return upstairs until Enjolras has returned." Jehan shook off Combeferre's hand on his shoulder, his blue-grey eyes flashing stubbornly.

"Your leg – " Combeferre fretted, glancing down at the foot that his friend held several inches off the floor. The leg was still swathed in thick bandages, and he was still clad in only nightclothes and a dressing gown.

"Is well enough for me to spend some time down here. And if you are so worried about my leg, Julien, you might as well help me over to the armchair." Jehan finished for him, his normal gentle attitude returning as he finished. Combeferre sighed deeply, and pushed his spectacles up on his nose before using his arm to support Prouvaire as they descended the last five steps and crossed the parlor. Courfeyrac helped to get their friend situated in the armchair, and joined Combeferre on the sofa.

"Tell me honestly, Jehan, how _is_ your leg?" Combeferre began, his gaze intent.

Prouvaire sighed, "It hurts. A lot. But not like before, now it's mostly an ache, though it smarts badly if I put weight on it or move it wrong." He said, glancing down to the bandages bound around his lower left leg.

"And your shoulder?" Courfeyrac asked, his dark brown eyes betraying his worry.

"It was only an abrasion, it's still bruised, but it doesn't hurt anymore. How is your arm Combeferre?" The poet replied, looking at Combeferre. The older – by only a few months – man had gotten his light brown hair cropped; it had grown too shaggy for his liking, though still not as long as either Courfeyrac's or Enjolras's before the latter had been required to cut it. His arm was still bandaged lightly, and the doctor was due to arrive within the next few days to remove the sutures.

"It's sore, but the most irritating is how much it itches. It's normal during healing but it's something I hope to be rid of soon." Julien answered, unconsciously running his fingers over the bandage.

Courfeyrac opened his mouth to reply, but the sound of a door slamming open silenced all three of them. Monsieur Gillenormand appeared at the top of the stairs, with Monsieur Fauchelevent and Cosette at his side, all with quizzical expressions. Combeferre had leapt to his feet, and Courfeyrac sat up stiffly at the sound.

"Whatever could that have been?" M. Gillenormand voiced in surprise. His question was answered not a minute later as Enjolras appeared in the doorway to the hall leading towards the kitchen. Combeferre's shoulders slumped in relief momentarily, before he straightened and walked quickly across the room to greet his friend.

"You are aware that it is almost an hour past sundown? You said, no, you _swore,_ that you would be back before then." He exclaimed, grasping the taller man's shoulders.

"I'm sorry, Julien, I tried to return as quickly as possible. I think you'll find I have a good reason for that, however." Enjolras apologized, squeezing Julien's arm comfortingly as he nodded at Courfeyrac. His gaze landed on Prouvaire, who had struggled into a standing position and turned to face him, and the tiniest hint of worry shone in his blue eyes. Then he turned around and gestured behind him, to a figure that Combeferre had not noticed in the dim but cheery light from oil lamps in the hall. His jaw dropped open as Joly stepped into the room.

"Joly!" He gasped, trapping the leaner man in a tight embrace, which the medical student returned wholeheartedly. Courfeyrac was upon them in an instant, enveloping both Combeferre and Joly in a bear hug. Enjolras placed a reassuring hand on Joly's shoulder, and moved to stand at the foot of the stairs as M. Gillenormand and M. Fauchelevent made their way downstairs with Cosette trailing close behind.

"Messieurs, please forgive me for returning so late. I hope I have not caused any upheaval in my absence?" He inclined his head, never taking his eyes off his friends' reunion. Monsieur Gillenormand waved off the apology.

"It is not even eight o'clock. Dinner is still being prepared." The elderly man replied, "Who is your friend, may I ask?"

Joly stepped up next to Enjolras at this, and bowed politely, "Pierre Joly, Monsieur. Thank you for opening your home to us, it truly means a great deal."

"Well Monsieur Joly, I am sure that one of your companions will be able to show you upstairs to the washroom, and then please join us all for dinner." M. Gillenormand invited. The elderly man then caught sight of Prouvaire.

"Young Man, are you quite well enough to join us as well? Marius will be remaining upstairs unfortunately." He asked, training his eye on the leg that Jehan still held off the floor. The poet looked up at him, startled. Combeferre, however, saved him from answering right away.

"Is your leg up to it, my friend? You already are not supposed to be out of bed."

Jehan looked thoughtful for a second, "I think I should need an extra dose of Laudanum tonight, but otherwise I am well enough to join you all."

"Excellent. I'll have one of the maids fetch you all when supper is ready." Their host replied, "Monsieur and Mademoiselle Fauchelevent, you will stay as well? I insist. With my daughter gone to visit family in Toulouse there is more than enough room at the table." The man extended the invitation, and took his leave at the affirmation from the two that they would stay.

It took Joly no time at all to wash, and Combeferre gave him a set of clothes to wear that were of better fit than the set Enjolras had supplied him with. Courfeyrac waited for him outside the door, and accompanied him downstairs once he emerged from the washroom. They joined the others in the dining room, and took their seats right as a simple meal was being brought out. Simple, of course, only by Bourgeois standards, but it was a much heartier meal than Joly had eaten in over a week. Soupe à L'oignon made up the main dish, and a tart smelling Beaujolais wine was poured for them, mingling tastefully with the aroma of onions in the soup. Monsieur Fauchelevent led them all in a prayer, thanking the Lord for Enjolras's safe return and for reuniting Joly with them. The meal was quiet for the most part, aside from Monsieur Gillenormand asking what Joly and Prouvaire studied at the University. Courfeyrac glanced at Enjolras midway through the meal, and though the older man's stiff posture and stern expression was nothing new, the slightly haunted look in his blue eyes was more than alarming. What had he seen in the streets? Granted, his friend had appeared slightly lost ever since the barricade fell, and was a mere shadow of the fiery, charismatic man he was familiar with.

Combeferre helped him get Prouvaire back up the stairs and into bed after the meal concluded; Poor Jehan had not taken into account the fact that he'd not been on his feet for over a week, and found himself lacking the stamina to remain downstairs any longer. Combeferre gave him a dose of Laudanum after he was in the bed, to help with the pain the poet was obviously feeling. Prouvaire was sleeping soundly after a few minutes, and the two quietly took their leave. They found Enjolras sitting in the library, along with Monsieur Fauchelevent and Cosette, though he wasn't engaged in the quiet conversation the latter two were holding. Joly sat next to him, his hands fidgeting and his brow furrowed nervously – which was not unusual for the medical student.

"Did you hear any more news while you were out today, Enjolras?" Combeferre began, taking a seat in one of the armchairs opposite his friend. Enjolras clenched his jaw for a second, before meeting Combeferre's eyes and speaking.

"There's talk of the police wanting to go door-to-door, searching for those involved in the uprising. There are more officers posted at the bridges that usual, searching carts and carriages, though they were letting foot traffic cross without much fuss both times I crossed the river." He replied, before gesturing to Joly, "I stumbled into Madame Hucheloup at the Musain, and she took me to Musichetta's apartment. She helped Joly escape, and they were both staying with Musichetta until today. Madame still is, until she can get the café repaired."

Courfeyrac leaned forward eagerly in his spot near the cold fireplace, "How are they? Madame was not hurt was she? I know she refused to leave the barricade…"

"They are both unharmed. Though Musichetta was forced to assist in cleaning the blood from the street, along with a few dozen other women. They were told that it was only fitting that they be the ones to clean up the street, since they are the ones who reside there." Joly replied, a rare hard note entering his voice. Courfeyrac stared at him, appalled.

"That's – _why_ would they - ?" Courfeyrac stuttered, his wide spaced eyes almost making him appear comical in his surprise. Enjolras cut him off.

"They did it as a show of power. Why make the National Guard clean up the carnage, when they could have the same class of people that we were fighting to free do it for them? Quash any _shred_ of disobedience left by making them see up close what the outcome was. A barely veiled threat, if you will." He explained testily. Monsieur Fauchelevent clearing his throat caused him to look at the old man. He followed the gentleman's gaze to Cosette, who, for her part, managed to appear only slightly unnerved by the boys' conversation. His mouth turned down at the edges.

"Mademoiselle, forgive me. This is no conversation for ladies' ears." He apologized, as much as to Monsieur Fauchelevent as to her. Cosette looked at him shyly.

"It's quite alright, Monsieur. I truthfully was not paying much attention." Her voice was soft but clear as a bell, and he had no trouble hearing her. He realized with a start that this was the first time since they'd met her that she'd spoken in their presence. Her father squeezed her hand.

"Cosette, why don't you wait for me in the salon? We'll be returning home shortly, I will be out in just a moment, I must speak with the young Messieurs." Monsieur Fauchelevent spoke in a different tone than any of the students had yet heard from the old man. The manner in which he spoke to his daughter left no doubts about how deeply he cared for her, and his entire face lit up when he looked at her, his eyes crinkling as a smile spread over his aging face.

"Yes, Papa. Oh, I hope poor Toussaint isn't waiting up for us." Her delicate brows furrowed slightly.

"I'm sure she's retired for the evening, I wouldn't fret Mon Cher." Monsieur Fauchelevent touched her brow briefly, and rose along with the rest of the boys as Cosette stood and left the room, bidding goodnight to the younger men. As they all settled back in their various seats, Monsieur Fauchelevent turned a serious gaze upon them, most notably Enjolras.

"Young Men, Cosette is a very well-read child. Very bright for her age. She reads almost obsessively, and I've no doubt that she's gotten her hands on any number of works by Rousseau or Thomas Paine at some point over the years. But she grew up in a convent, and knew nothing outside its walls for nine years. Even still, her and I do not lead very public lives. She knows nothing of how corrupt our government is. She does not know how cruel the world is, and I would prefer to spare her that knowledge, at least for the time being." Monsieur Fauchelevent's voice was kind, as usual, but there was a protectiveness in his eyes as he spoke of his daughter. All of the younger men took note of the way the older man's jaw tightened ever so slightly when he mentioned the cruelty of the world, but only Combeferre, from his seat closest to the library doors, noticed the tiny flash of pale green skirt peeking around the edge of the open door. He had to suppress a grin at this; Cosette was eavesdropping! Joly's voice drew his attention back to the conversation.

"I'm deeply sorry, Monsieur. I should not have brought the topic up. You and Enjolras are correct, this is no topic suitable for a lady to be forced to listen to." The young doctor wrung his hands nervously. Enjolras looked down at the man's fidgeting, and reached over with one of his own hands to cover Joly's, stopping him.

"It's quite alright, Monsieur. No harm done." M. Fauchelevent replied kindly, before looking a Enjolras, "Now, would Monsieur Enjolras be open to describing exactly what the attitudes are out in the streets? I know that the king made an appearance after the fighting concluded. Like you said, Monsieur, a show of power."

Enjolras straightened in his seat, meeting the older man's curious gaze easily. A shadow of his former self was visible in his blue eyes, though Combeferre and Courfeyrac, even Joly knew better. The Enjolras they all knew and loved seemed to have been left behind at the barricade.

"Everything seems to be fairly normal on this side of the river. The marketplaces are crowded, as usual. The University plaza however seems to have quite a heavy surveillance being conducted by the police. I did not ride down there, merely passed by the street." Enjolras began, adding the last bit in response to Combeferre inhaling sharply. He continued, "The Pont au Change is overrun with police, and they were conducting searches, though both times I passed over it was without fuss. Likely because they could clearly see my face; they were favoring searching the coaches and fiacres. Saint Michel may as well have been abandoned for all the activity in that part of the city. I believe I saw maybe five citizens out on the streets on my way to the Musain."

Enjolras stopped speaking then, his face impassive. He took a deep breath, and locked his eyes on Combeferre before speaking again, unconsciously seeking comfort in his best friend's light blue eyes. "The barricade is still there. Most of it, at least. They've taken down almost half of it to make room for supply carts and the undertaker. Like Joly said, the blood has been cleaned from the street and all of the fallen Guard have been taken away." He paused again, and clenched his jaw as he spoke in a detached voice, "Our friends are still there. They left their bodies lined up in the alleyway."

Joly stared at the high polished floor at these words, while Courfeyrac and even Combeferre made audible sounds of surprise, their faces appalled. Even Monsieur Fauchelevent appeared disturbed by this, though Enjolras suspected that not much truly caught the man off guard.

"….All of them? What about Feuilly and Bossuet? They were still alive after the worst of the fighting….." Combeferre stuttered in disbelief, which was rare for him. Usually he was very well-spoken and enunciate.

"Feuilly was shot while he and Joly were trying to escape the Musain, and Bossuet was executed inside the Musain after we escaped. He'd all but forced me to join you all upstairs and leave him to tend to Bahorel. Madame Hucheloup said she only heard one shot, so that means either that Bahorel had already died, or the Guard figured him too far gone to bother shooting him. He'd already lost consciousness by the time we locked ourselves inside the café." Enjolras confirmed, hating the way Combeferre, _Combeferre_ of all men, appeared to crumple before his very eyes. Courfeyrac had tears streaming down his face, and had a fist pressed over his mouth as he tried not to begin openly crying. Combeferre, bless that Saint of a man, wrapped an arm around Courfeyrac's shoulders to calm the younger man, even though his own eyes were red and tearful behind his spectacles.

"And the Guard has just left them there? The undertaker didn't take them?" Combeferre asked shakily.

"No, I'm assuming it's yet another show of power on their part. Regardless of the fact that it's summer, and the smell…. It was not pleasant. Some of the bodies have been claimed by their families, but neither Bossuet nor Bahorel's families had claimed theirs, and of course Feuilly has no parents or siblings to pay for his burial. Courfeyrac…." Enjolras loathed having to cause his friend more pain, but he had to be told. The younger man looked at him skeptically as he continued, "Gavroche's body is still there. Along with the Thenardier girl's. Éponine, was her name I believe."

Courfeyrac let out a broken sob, and immediately Combeferre tightened his arm around his shoulders and drew him into a tight embrace, despite his own efforts to hold back tears. It briefly crossed his mind that he'd also been the one to comfort the younger man when Gavroche had been shot, and he focused once more on Enjolras.

"His parents won't claim him. Nor will they claim Éponine. He was her brother, you know. Last I heard, they'd been arrested, but the father somehow escaped from La Force. The mother is still locked up in St. Lazare, I believe, and the younger sister was released from Les Madelonntes with Éponine some months back, due to lack of evidence, after some debacle involving the whole family in that old Gorbeau tenement. No one knows where the younger girl is, I'm sure Éponine did, and Gavroche likely ran into her from time to time. You know he sometimes went to visit them all, why he did I'll never know, after their parents turned him out the way they did." Combeferre dead panned. He glanced at Monsieur Fauchelevent to see how he was taking the information, and was intrigued to see an expression of recognition on the old man's face at the mention of the Thenardiers.

"I'm paying for Gavroche. He deserves a proper burial." Courfeyrac mumbled as he tried to gain control of his tears. Enjolras looked at him in surprise, not by the fact that his friend wanted to claim the little boy, but because he had no way of retrieving the funds needed from his apartment.

"Antoine, how are you going to get the money? The fact that you haven't been home in over a week, right after the uprising, is suspicious enough in itself. You haven't been to class, nor have you been home to your parents'" Enjolras reasoned. His face was stone and he sat ramrod straight in his seat – his emotions under lock and key once more.

"I'll send a missive to my parents, that way I can say I had to return home for a family emergency, and they won't question it if someone questions them as to my whereabouts." Courfeyrac sat up, his face still red and his eyes misty. Combeferre squeezed his shoulder in concern.

"If I may, Messieurs, I would be more than willing to pay for the burials of the girl and your friend Feuilly." M. Fauchelevent spoke up suddenly, and all four students turned to stare at him in disbelief.

"Monsieur….we cannot ask you to do that. You don't have to spend your money on strangers. You barely know us, you only even met Feuilly once, and Éponine had - she'd died before you ever arrived at the barricade." Joly argued. M. Fauchelevent shook his head kindly.

"It is no trouble. I met the Thenardier girl once, briefly, years ago. I had business with her parents at one time, I know how they conduct themselves. As for Monsieur Feuilly, you say that he was an orphan, with no family? It is the least I can do."

"Monsieur, you have our sincerest thanks."

"As I said, it is no trouble. On a lighter note, are any of you planning to return to classes? Monsieur Enjolras, you stated last week that you were in your final year, I would imagine that your final exam would be coming up soon."

Enjolras looked uncomfortable at this change of topic, but he answered the older man without hesitation nonetheless, "Oui, Monsieur. It is scheduled for the twenty-fifth of June. Though I doubt that I will be allowed to take it due the number of classes I've missed over the past week and a half."

"I'm sure they would let you take it if you offer up a believable excuse to explain your absence. How was your attendance before the barricade, if I may ask?"

"I never missed a class. And I have high marks in all my classes as well."

"Yes, you out-debated some of our professors more times than I care to count! Didn't Professor Allard forbid you from engaging in discussion this semester?" Combeferre joined in with a chuckle. Though his main interest was philosophy, he was earning a degree in Law mostly to, among other things, please his parents. They knew a hint of his political leanings, but were more concerned with him being successful after turning down the opportunity to take over his father's shipping company.

"He did. Said I was too outspoken to know what was good for me." Enjolras replied with a hint of a smile, before looking back at M. Fauchelevent, "Monsieur, I will think on what you said. I would, after all, prefer not to have to turn six years of study into seven."

"That's good to hear. Now, I really must be getting Cosette back home, it's quite late especially for her. I will wish you three good night, as well as young Marius and Monsieur Prouvaire." Monsieur Fauchelevent stood stiffly, and nodded once to the boys before taking his leave. Combeferre had heard Cosette quietly hurry away from the doorway when her father stood, and the corner of his mouth jerked in amusement.

The boys made their way upstairs soon after the Fauchelevent's left, and bid each other goodnight. Joly found himself in Combeferre's room, as the latter had chosen to spend the night in his chair in Enjolras's quarters. Joly had only just extinguished the oil lamp and crawled under the blankets – thankfully the bed was already situated facing north to south - when raised voices from across the hall drew his ear. He sat up instantly, trying to listen, but the closed doors muffled the voices to much to hear what they were saying. It was undoubtedly Enjolras and Combeferre, as Enjolras's room was just one door to his left across the hall from his.

Not a minute later, Combeferre opened the door, rather, he threw it open. His jaw was clenched as he more gently closed it behind him. He let out a long sigh as he removed his spectacles and wiped them clean on the hem of his night shirt.

"Do I want to know?" Joly spoke up after a moment in concern. Julien looked at him as he placed his glasses back on his nose.

"He's been having nightmares. Though nightmare doesn't seem to be the right word for what he's experiencing. He screams in his sleep, and it's difficult to wake him when he's having one. When I can get him to wake up, he doesn't know where he is, or who I am, for several minutes. It takes him a long time to go back to sleep afterward, if at all. He oft pretends to sleep if I'm in the room, but he forgets that I can tell the difference. I've been spending the last few nights in his room in the armchair, trying to keep him calm when he starts having these nightmares. He's not getting enough sleep, he's not eating nearly as much as he used to. And I fear that Monsieur Gillenormand's patience is running thin with his continued nightmares, as I know it wakes him up."

Joly was silent for a moment before replying, "I'm going to harbor a guess that your argument just now was on the topic of you watching out for him?"

"His exact words were, 'I'm not a child who requires protection from monsters under the bed.'"

"Combeferre, you know he's stubborn. He probably just feels like you think him weak or incapable because he's being subjected to these dreams. I am not blind, I know how you two rely on each other, and I know you have been close since childhood. Give him some breathing room, I've no doubt he will let you know if these dreams become too much to bear, and if not, you know him well enough to spot when something is up."

"You are right, I suppose. I worry for him though. He's several months older, and I'm a year behind him in my studies. But I saw how his father treated him when we were children. His mother couldn't protect him from his father, though she doted on him when Monsieur Enjolras was not present. She loves him, and I've no doubt his father does as well, in his own way. But Enjolras suffered at the hand of his father. Even I don't know many details of what he went through, and I grew up just two miles down the road. Our families are in many of the same social circles. I should know how to help him."

"Julien, he's grieving. We all are. It sounds like he's simply feeling a bit mothered right now with you watching his every move and sitting in his room every night. He knows that you are only doing it out of concern, and I do not doubt that it really means a great deal to him, but just give him some breathing room for a bit, he'll let you know if he needs help. Now, I suggest that we both get some sleep, and I'd like to examine Prouvaire in the morning as well, just to put my mind at rest." Joly began to get out of the bed, so that Combeferre could have it back, but the older man shook his head.

"You sleep there tonight. I can sleep in the armchair." He said as he bent down, and groped blindly under the bed for an extra blanket, unable to see in the darkened room. He finally located the blanket, and was quickly situated in the armchair, leaving his spectacles folded on the night table. His breathing evened out after a few minutes, and Joly was lulled to sleep soon after by the sound of Combeferre's quiet inhalations.

He had no idea what hour it was when he jolted awake, but Combeferre was already on his feet and in the hallway as the next strangled cry penetrated the quiet house. Joly had stumbled out of bed behind him, and quickly joined him in the hallway as Combeferre threw open Enjolras's door. He distantly heard Courfeyrac rush into the hall behind him, and what sounded mysteriously like Prouvaire limping across the wooden floor. But he paid no attention to either, because the sight of their leader, their strong, unflappable chief, writhing on the bed held him riveted in place. Enjolras was drenched in sweat, and the pallor of his skin was more than concerning. Combeferre rushed instantly to his friend's bedside to hold the poor man still. He turned wild eyes, bare of his spectacles, to Joly, who took the hint and quickly joined him at the bedside. Enjolras thrashed against Combeferre's grip, and a guttural moan escaped his clenched jaw. Joly threw his own weight against his friend, assisting Combeferre as Enjolras struggled.

"Courfeyrac, get a basin of cold water. He needs to wake up." Joly grunted under the effort of trying to hold Enjolras down. Even with Combeferre's help, it was more difficult than he'd anticipated to keep their friend from unconsciously hurting himself. Enjolras, despite his lean build, was nearly stronger than the two of them put together. Courfeyrac hurriedly retrieved a basin, and brought it to the bedside. None of them noticed that Monsieur Gillenormand had awoken, and was now standing in the doorway with an incredulous expression. Surprisingly even Marius had somehow made it out of his chambers, and into Enjolras's room, despite his painful wound.

"Combeferre, be ready, he's going to wake up quite abruptly. Courfeyrac, pour a bit of that water on his face." Joly instructed as he tightened his grip on Enjolras's upper arms.

Enjolras's eyes opened wide as the icy water fell on his face, and he quickly tried to sit up in surprise, only to meet the resistance of his friends' arms holding him down. This began to drive him into a panic, not realizing that it was his friends, only conscious of the fact that something was preventing him from moving freely.

"Enjolras. Enjolras! You're safe, Mon Ami, you're safe, everything is fine! René, it's me!" Combeferre exclaimed, trying desperately to calm his friend.

"Enjolras, look at us, you are safe. You're in bed, in your room, at Monsieur Gillenormand's home. You were dreaming, it's not real." Joly spoke calmly, knowing that his own anxiety wouldn't help Enjolras calm down. Finally, the blond man's gaze settled on first Joly, then Combeferre, and the confusion and fear in his eyes gave way to full consciousness. His chest heaved as he frantically drew in ragged breaths. He wore a night shirt, but it was soaked through with sweat. His dreadfully pale skin, clammy from sweat, stood out in the dim moonlight filtering through the window.

"René? Are you well, Mon Ami?" Combeferre ventured cautiously, carefully laying a hand on Enjolras's shoulder. He suddenly found himself staring into his friend's impossibly blue eyes, and knew immediately that Enjolras was not _well._ Physically, he appeared to be fine, aside from the slight shaking left over from his nightmare. But Combeferre could see a hint of the desperation in his friend's eyes, nearly hidden completely behind the stony expression that was trying to take hold. Enjolras failed miserably on this front when his face grew slack and he squinted his eyes. Combeferre had seen this look before, the first night they were there in Monsieur Gillenormand's home, and immediately looked across the bed.

"Joly, the chamberpot please. Quickly. It's under the bed." He requested, and Joly managed to shove the pot in front of their friend just as the nausea overcame him and he was sick. It was over quickly, and Enjolras sat up trembling from the effort of being sick. He shrugged off Combeferre's hand on his shoulder as he looked up, and realized in horror that all of his friends, including Marius and Prouvaire, were in the room, not just Julien and Joly. And then there was Monsieur Gillenormand, standing in the doorway with his expression a mix of irritation and slight concern. Though really he just appeared irritated, and Enjolras didn't blame him. He gratefully took the glass of water that Courfeyrac handed him, and swallowed half its contents in one go. He set the glass on the night table, and looked at Combeferre, seeing the unasked question written plainly on his friend's face in the dim light thrown across the room by the oil lamp that someone, namely Marius, had lit.

"I'm fine, Combeferre." He sighed, refusing to meet the eyes of any of the other occupants of the room. He was ashamed and embarrassed at them having witnessed him in the clutches of one of his nightmares. Combeferre squeezed his arm in comfort.

"I know, Mon Ami." His friend said softly, "I'm going to leave Joly to examine you, if only to put his own mind at ease."

Enjolras watched as Julien stood, and followed Monsieur Gillenormand out of the room at a gesture from the elderly man. Marius looked after the two with a worried expression, but was leaning too heavily on a cane from pain to follow.

Joly remained by the bed, muttering under his breath about his medical bag, which drew Enjolras's attention.

"I am in no need of an examination, Pierre. I had a nightmare, not cardiac arrest." Enjolras intoned. Joly looked at him.

"It's not that, Mon Ami, I was merely debating whether or not to give you some Laudanum."

"Whatever for? I am neither injured nor ill." Enjolras protested.

"But it will help you sleep. Don't think I haven't noticed the shadows under your eyes and how you seemed ready to fall asleep at the dinner table. This isn't the first time you've gone without sleep, though it is for a different reason. You may think you have us all fooled, but the only one fooled in that scenario is you." Joly knew his words were a bit harsh, but quite frankly, he didn't care. Though Enjolras was not formally listed as one of his patients, Joly thought of him as such due to the constant nagging he had to give him to get enough food and sleep.

Courfeyrac had left the room at Joly's words, helping Marius and Prouvaire back to their respective quarters. He returned to the room with the bottle of laudanum in his hand, which he handed to Joly as he threw an apologetic look at Enjolras.

"I'm sorry, Mon Ami, but Joly is right. You need to sleep." The dark haired man all but pleaded. Enjolras found his resolve crumbling under the younger man's pleading gaze, and he looked at Joly in rapidly growing irritation.

"No." He stated.

"Enjolras…."

"You cannot force me to take it."

"Not alone I can't. Though I am sure I could enlist the help of Combeferre and Courfeyrac."

"You'd really try to hold me down and force-feed it to me?" Enjolras scoffed.

Courfeyrac glanced at Joly, "I do not think that would be such a good idea, Joly."

"And why not? He may be stronger than all of us separate, but – "

Courfeyrac interrupted him there, able to tell that Joly was getting desperate, hence the far-fetched idea. "Have you forgotten that he is well-practiced in savate? And that he doesn't take too kindly to physical contact?" He spoke as if the man in question was not sitting there in the bed listening to every word. Joly started in surprise; he didn't recall ever being told that Enjolras knew jeu Marseillais [game from Marseille]. He'd seen plenty of injuries caused by this style of fighting during his shifts at the Necker, though he did recall hearing from somewhere that Parisian savate was more brutal than the southern style.

"I was not aware. I am assuming you learned in Marseille?" He turned back to Enjolras, trying to hide his surprise. How a man who'd grown up in a wealthy household had learned this style of street fighting was beyond him.

"I also know Parisian techniques. But yes, Marseille is where I first saw it in practice." Enjolras smirked coldly.

"If you are talking about challenging Enjolras to a round of savate, Joly, I am sorry to say that you do not stand a chance, Mon Ami. He is quite adept at it." Combeferre's voice sounded from the doorway as the bespectacled man entered the room once more. He wore a grim expression, but it went mostly unnoticed by Courfeyrac and Joly. Enjolras noticed it, he could tell, but the blond man didn't comment.

"I'm trying to persuade him to take some Laudanum to help him sleep." Joly explained wearily, "However did he learn savate? It's street-fighting."

"Street-fighting is an understatement, Mon Ami. I know you've seen savate-related injuries at the Necker. Tell me, what were most of the injuries?" Combeferre queried.

"Broken bones, concussions. Sometimes patients were brought in unconscious, and with the worst contusions I've ever seen."

"Savate is a type of martial arts, slightly similar to that form of Asian fighting called karate, only less acrobatic and with higher risk of injury to the combatants. In Marseille, it's primarily used by sailors on the ships, and they typically employ high kicks and open-handed slaps. They do it that way so they can hold on to something for balance while fighting on a ship's deck. Here in Paris, it's typically only seen in the slums, and here, it's more vicious, with the sole intent often being to injure one's opponent. Again, only foot kicks are allowed, though unlike the Southern style, the kicks are kept low, almost never striking above the waist, and are delivered with the goal of breaking bones. Open-hand blows are also used, though in this style they primarily target the facial area, with the intent to stun and disorient the opponent. Now, all of that aside, what exactly is going on?" Combeferre gave a hurried explanation of the art of savate, before looking first at Enjolras, then at Joly.

"I am trying to persuade him to take some Laudanum to help him sleep. He won't listen to reason." Joly fretted, a tad uneasy after hearing exactly what savate was.

"I do not see why I need it. I am neither injured nor ill." Enjolras protested.

"Enjolras, you know as well as I do that laudanum induces sleep. It's not just a painkiller. Please, just listen to Joly. It's the middle of the night. You've never been the easiest patient to deal with, but Joly knows more than you and I combined when it comes to medical decisions. Just take the Laudanum." Combeferre gave a long-suffering sigh. He wasn't in the mood to deal with his friend's iron will after the conversation he'd just had with Monsieur Gillenormand. Enjolras graced him with a stony glare before turning it on Joly.

"I don't like this." He dead panned in annoyance to the medical student.

"I know, but humor me. Please." Joly outright pleaded.

"Just this one time." Enjolras warned after a beat. Joly sighed in clear relief, thankful that the battle had fallen in his favor. He quickly unscrewed the lid on the glass bottle, and measured out the correct dosage, before carefully passing the spoon to Enjolras.

"Just a small dose, to help you sleep. Not put you fully unconscious." Joly reassured him. Enjolras nodded once, stiffly, as he took the spoon. He quickly tipped the reddish-brown liquid into his mouth, screwing up his face at the horrid taste and swallowing with a barely repressed shudder. He took the glass of water still on the night table and downed the rest of its contents.

"Will you stopping fretting now, Joly? It's the middle of the night; you all need your sleep just as much as you say I do." He requested, albeit a bit sarcastically.

"Alright, Mon Ami. We'll see you in the morning." Joly relented easily, taking back the spoon that Enjolras handed him. He knew his boundaries, and Enjolras's resolve and stubbornness rivaled even that of a mule. Normally Joly would not have pushed so hard to get him to listen, but he'd thankfully been correct in his assumption that the nightmare and embarrassment serving to weaken said resolve, not to mention the fact that Combeferre, the Amis voice of reason, their guide, could nearly always persuade Enjolras to see sense. He was satisfied with his small victory in persuading him to take the meager amount of Laudanum.

He beckoned to Courfeyrac and the two made for the door, waiting outside in the hall until Combeferre joined them a few moments later after a few words with their chief. Courfeyrac gazed at him, concerned greatly by the grim expression that, even in the dim light of the darkened house, shone clearly on his face and in his blue-green eyes.

"What did Monsieur Gillenormand want to discuss? He did not seem pleased at having been awoken at this hour." He asked quietly.

Combeferre sighed deeply, and briefly touched his arm to signal both him and Joly to follow him a bit farther down the hall, where they wouldn't risk Enjolras possibly overhearing him.

"Well?" Courfeyrac pushed once they were standing at the top of the stairs.

"Monsieur Gillenormand has suggested that it…. may be best…. If we find different accommodation, until Enjolras, his words, 'can be gotten under control'." Combeferre spoke in monotone. Courfeyrac froze, and looked at him in alarm.

"But – But we have nowhere else to go!" He fretted, his brown eyes wide.

"Musichetta's apartment is far too small, and I don't wish to endanger her or Madame." Joly dismissed the thought quickly.

"I suppose we could attempt to return to our own apartments…." Combeferre suggested.

"No, Julien. We could, yes, but I'm not going anywhere that Enjolras cannot be, and you know the police are watching the University Plaza. He may have escaped a few gendarmes today, but soon enough one of them will put the pieces together and figure out who he is. It's too risky." Courfeyrac protested, still in a hushed tone.

"Antoine, what choice do we have? We can't go back to Gav - Gavroche's hideaway."

"I'll send a letter to my parents, see if possibly they could be of assistance."

"No, your parents have been kind enough to Enjolras and I in the past, but asking them to harbor fugitives is too much. And lest you forget, your parents are not exactly in support of the Revolution."

"But they are not Royalist, either. They could – "

"No, Antoine. Listen, Monsieur Gillenormand has given us until next week to find new accommodations. We'll think of something."

"Alright. Though I will write my parents either way – they need to be made aware of the excuse I am going to make to explain my absence from class."

"We all should. I can convince Enjolras to at least write his mother, or I will do it for him. His father does not need to be made aware of his son's recent actions, though I don't doubt he is already suspicious."

"Does Enjolras know?" Joly inquired.

"About us being turned out? No, he didn't need to hear such news while falling asleep. I'll inform him in the morning after he's gotten some rest."

"I agree, he needs some decent sleep. On that note, we should all be returning to bed." Joly replied, turning back in the direction of the room he was sharing with Julien.

"Yes, we can continue this discussion later. Get some rest, Antoine." Julien cuffed Courfeyrac affectionately on the shoulder as he made his way back into his room.

As he settled back into the plush armchair, and pulled the blanket up around him, Joly's voice made him open his eyes.

"Would Enjolras really have used savate on me if I'd tried to force him to take the laudanum?" The medical student sounded mostly curious, with only a slight tremor of fear in his voice.

"Not intentionally, no. He knows how severe that fighting style is, though if you'd caught him off-guard it's possible he could have lashed out in shock. In his position on the bed, if you'd tried to hold him down the worst you could have gotten is a blow to the face, not delivered hard enough to do more than bruise." Combeferre replied in mild amusement over Joly's worry.

"Where did he learn it even?"

"He first learned in Marseille, on ventures down to the docks. The sailors used it as a form of entertainment as well as actual fighting. Hence the term Jeu Marseillais. They'd spar on the top decks of ships and on the docks. A few men from one of my father's ships actually offered to teach Enjolras and I after noticing us watching several of the sparring matches. Neither of our parents know, I do not think they would be pleased that their sons are practiced in such a rough manner of fighting. " Combeferre explained.

"You know it too?" Joly asked in surprise.

"I only know the Southern style. Enjolras is adept at both. We still spar sometimes, though he fights fair and only uses moves we both know. I am no match for him if he decides to employ Parisian techniques. B-Bahorel and Feuilly taught him the Parisian style. He also knows Canne de Combat, and Fencing. Fencing he was taught at home, as was I. La Canne he also learned at home. He knows something of boxing, Bahorel tried to teach him, and it's where he met Grantaire." Combeferre told him tiredly, "Weren't you the one who suggested we all return to bed?"

"Forgive me, of course. I was merely curious. Goodnight Combeferre."

"Goodnight, Joly."


	6. Chapter 6

_**Oh My Goodness I am so sorry for the delay! Work and school got in the way, as well as some writer's block, but here is chapter six! Things will start to pick up next chapter, which I will try to get written as quickly as possible. I've also decided to change the title of this, well translate it at least. The title will be "Foundre dans leurs yeux" which is simply Lightning in their Eyes in French. :)** **Also, just letting you all know this entire story is typed on my iPad, and all Apple users know the odd thing autocorrect will do, so if you all see any grammar or spelling mistakes please let me know, either the iPad did it or I was typing too fast! Hope you will enjoy and I'd love to hear what you all think of this story so far!**_

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Pale sunlight filtering through the window eventually forced Enjolras to open his eyes. To his surprise, Combeferre was not sitting in the chair as he'd done the past several nights. Then he remembered the debacle that had occurred the night before, courtesy of him, regrettably. He sat up and stretched with a groan, feeling better rested than he had in over three weeks. Not that he would admit it to either Joly or Combeferre, but the tiny amount of Laudanum _had_ helped. Then he noticed the angle of the light shine through the window, and sighed in annoyance. It was past ten o' clock, far later than he usually slept. Only a handful of times had he even been in bed until eight; normally he was up and dressing by half six in the morning.

He threw the sheets back on the bed and stood, quickly making his way over to the wardrobe on the opposite wall. After shedding his night clothes, and dressing in tan trousers with a navy waistcoat and grey cravat over a white cotton shirt, he made his way downstairs. He found his friends, surprisingly including Marius and Jehan, in the front salon, conversing quietly with Monsieur Fauchelevent and his daughter. Monsieur Gillenormand was nowhere to be seen.

"….though I could not convince him, his mind is set I am afraid." Marius's voice reached his ears as he approached them, and they all looked up upon spotting him, ceasing whatever conversation they'd been having.

"Ah, he finally awakens! I was surprised that the sound of Courfeyrac tripping and falling in the hallway earlier this morning didn't even wake you, it certainly woke the rest of us up!" Combeferre greeted him, his voice falsely cheerful and concern mingling amongst the lingering grief in his eyes.

"That vase should not have been in my way." Courfeyrac groused.

"I didn't hear anything. Who are you talking about, Marius?" Enjolras replied, turning his gaze on the lean, dark haired boy, a bad feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. This feeling only intensified when his friends all averted their eyes from him, appearing uncomfortable. Marius appeared to struggle for words momentarily, but tried to meet Enjolras's piercing gaze. He failed, due to the unnervingly intense and intimidating stare trained on him. When Marius failed to speak for several more moments, everyone gathered in the room witnessed a most impressive sight!

Enjolras had squared his shoulders and drawn himself up to his full height, jaw taut and freezing Marius in his spot with an ice blue stare, his full lips turned down slightly and heavy brow lowered in annoyance. He appeared, just for a moment, every image of the golden haired man who had stood so valiantly atop the barricade and spoken so poetically at rallies and during their secret meetings. For just a moment, he appeared the man they all knew and cherished.

Then it was gone, the fire in his eyes extinguished as quickly as if a bucket of water had been thrown at him. Though he remained standing straight, his gaze still intimidating just from the sheer intensity of it, it was clear to his friends, Combeferre and Courfeyrac especially, that the burden of grief and heartache their friend was carrying was taking much greater toll on him than they had first anticipated.

"Who couldn't you convince of what, Marius?" Enjolras asked again, with forced patience.

Marius, poor lad, swallowed audibly before replying, fiddling with the head of the cane propped up against his leg, "Well, my grandfather…he has requested that you all…find accommodation elsewhere. I tried to convince him otherwise, but he's made up his mind."

Enjolras tensed visibly. He should've known better! _Just_ when he'd begun to trust the old man!

"And when did he come to this decision?" His voice was deadly quiet. Combeferre spoke up, aiming a look of reproach at his friend, a silent reminder that there was a lady present.

"Last night, when Joly was trying to convince you to –" he broke off at a sharp look from Enjolras. The blond man clearly didn't want the Fauchelevents to know about what had transpired the previous night.

"And how long do we have to find this new accommodation?" Enjolras asked in a slightly calmer tone.

"A week. Courfeyrac is debating returning to his apartment, once he receives a reply from his parents, so that he may hopefully return to classes, though they'll be ending for the summer come July."

"You and I will need to think of returning to our own rooms as well. Rent should not be due for another week, and you know that Madame Bertrand is not the most vigilant of the comings and goings of her tenants, so long as the rent is paid."

"But?" Julien heard the unspoken word, and met his friend's eyes, pressing him to continue.

"But the risk is high. I do not trust it, and I do not want us to split up. Prouvaire still needs assistance to get around, even with a cane, and there are always police about, even though the National Guard has surely become less of an immediate threat."

"You could write your parents, inform them of what has transpired the past few weeks, I'm sure they would be willing to send a letter to the University with an excuse to your absence. Our building lies so close to the University that walking about shouldn't provide much risk, if you only go to and from classes, especially with so little time left in the term, you can leave the city as soon as you take the final exam." Combeferre ventured, knowing this idea was far-fetched and more risky than he would normally suggest.

Enjolras scoffed derisively, "I highly doubt my father would be willing to save my hide by sending an excuse to the University. He does not meddle in my affairs. I agree that I need to take the final exam if possible, but I'll do so without his assistance."

"If I may, Messieurs? I have another home in the city, larger than the one where Cosette and I are currently residing. Not as grand as this, mind you, but it has two spare bedrooms that are furnished with beds. Plus there are two sofas which I can have fitted with bed linens. It's on the Rue Plumet, which isn't a heavily traveled street. You are welcome to stay with us for the time being, if you would like." Monsieur Fauchelevent spoke up kindly. Enjolras slowly turned to face him. The offer was tempting, but he'd just experienced a very cold reminder of why he didn't trust strangers.

"Je vous remercie, Monsieur, mais qui ne sera pas nécessaire. [Thank you, Sir, but that will not be necessary.]" He turned down the offer, despite Combeferre's highly reproachful glare.

"I insist, Monsieur Enjolras. Please, it is of no hindrance to us to house you all for a few weeks, or as long as is needed. I know something of falling on difficult times." Monsieur Fauchelevent pressed with a gentle smile.

"I appreciate the offer, Monsieur, but really, you needn't burden yourself by housing us. We are all accustomed to living on our own." Enjolras replied, continuing to ignore the aghast expressions on both Combeferre and now Courfeyrac's faces.

"Enjolras…" Julien muttered warningly.

"Young Man, I beg you to accept my offer. I will not turn you out, we have plenty of food, plenty of room for the four of you, five if you wish to come along as well, Monsieur Courfeyrac. It is no trouble, and our housekeeper will greatly enjoy being allowed to cook for more than just Cosette and I. The police are still on high alert for you especially, they have placed Wanted posters all over the city, though the sketch of your face thankfully does not resemble you close enough for much concern. But they have remained vigilant along the bridges, and nearby the University. And also, I must inform you all. Charles Jeanne's trial is set to be held publicly on October tenth. The newspaper said he was regarded as the head of the Uprising?"

These words gave Enjolras pause. His friends appeared troubled by this news as well – The members of Les Amis de l'ABC had all met and spoken with the charismatic leader of the main republican group, the _Société des Droits de l'Homme,_ of which Les Amis was a sub-group of, on multiple occasions. Enjolras himself had been invited to several more secret meetings among the leaders of various revolutionary groups, and had taken many instructions and advice from the older workingman.

"Yes, he led the most prominent group, La Société des Droits de l'Homme, and often acted as a sounding board for many of us smaller groups when we needed advice or assistance. Most of the revolutionary groups did not consist of students, mainly workingmen, my group was one of the exceptions. I often took guidance from Jeanne; Les Amis de l'ABC was – is – merely a sub-group of La Société des Droits de l'Homme. He led the Saint Merry barricade, two streets over from ours at the Rue de la Chanvrerie. It fell several hours before ours, in the early hours of that same morning." Enjolras replied quietly, "He is being held at La Force, I imagine?"

"Yes, along with several others that were involved in the Uprising, though their names have not been released as of yet. I am assuming them to be leaders of other republican groups." Monsieur Fauchelevent affirmed, "Please, I am telling you all this in the hope that you will see reason. I beg you all to at the very least accompany Cosette and I to the Rue Plumet for tea and to see the house for yourselves. It is far safer than returning to your apartments near the University."

Enjolras stared hard at the old man, "Monsieur, you saved us at the barricade, multiple times. You risked your own life to save Marius, when you had never formally met him prior to that. You let the spy Javert go free, and you continue to offer assistance to us all, for what reasons I do not know. You have proven your trustworthiness to us several times over, and I have no doubt that my friends would think me a great fool to continue to turn down your offer. I do not wish to offend you or your daughter by shunning this great generosity, and the safety and well being of my friends is of utmost importance to me."

He spoke in a regal voice, making it very clear to all in the room that he was accepting the older man's offer simply out of concern for his friends. He maintained a stony gaze aimed at Monsieur Fauchelevent, and the older man calmly returned his gaze with a genteel expression. He pitied this young man, who held the weight of the world upon his shoulders, but refused to allow anyone else to even lighten the load. He knew the boy was being plagued by nightmares, not because he'd been told by any of the other men, but simply by the physical evidence standing before him. Come to think of it, all of the young men gathered before him were clearly sleep deprived, and they all seemed far more hyper aware of their surroundings than was normal for men of their age. Courfeyrac in particular had been fidgeting ever since entering the parlor, barely noticeable to anyone else, but extremely obvious to M. Fauchelevent. Combeferre simply appeared exhausted for the most part, with dark purple circles under his eyes, worry lines etched in his forehead and around his mouth, and his eyes, though keen and observant as always, were clouded with concealed grief and anxiety, making him appear far older than his five and twenty years. He got the sense that the young medical student, Joly, was of a naturally nervous disposition, but he seemed far more anxious than the old man figured was normal. Cosette's lilting voice startled him suddenly; she wasn't usually one to speak up in the company of others.

"You all truly are safe with us, we won't turn you out. Besides, we don't get many visitors, I believe I'll quite like having people to talk to for a change!" She smiled warmly at Enjolras, and sweeping her gaze quickly over the other young men, her bright eyes lingering on Marius. Enjolras slowly turned to look at the girl in mild surprise that she'd spoken. And he suddenly found, upon hearing her words, that he was even less able to turn down their offer. Little did the Man of Marble know that very few people were in fact able to refuse Cosette anything once she'd spoken. He struggled for an answer, completely unversed in the art of speaking to women, even in matters of simple conversation.

"I can't imagine that any of us would be very intriguing conversation, Mademoiselle." Enjolras finally answered, scarcely able to meet her curious gaze. He heard a quickly muffled chuckle from over his shoulder, and turned to see Courfeyrac quickly ducking his head with a hand pressed over his mouth. His mouth turned down, and he returned his gaze to the Fauchelevents when Prouvaire lightly swatted their younger friend's arm in reprimand.

"When would you wish for us to arrive, Monsieur?" René questioned, trying to be open to the idea of, quite literally, taking charity from these people.

"If it isn't too much trouble, how does tomorrow morning sound?" Monsieur Fauchelevent suggested.

"That sounds reasonable."

Combeferre took this moment to speak up, "Forgive me, Monsieur, but would there be any chance that we could possibly retrieve any of our personal effects from our apartments? We'd also need to settle rent with our concierges, and inform them of us vacating our respective rooms."

The old man appeared thoughtful for a moment, "I am sure we can arrange something. We'd have to stagger your arrivals, of course. I must go discuss our plan with Monsieur Gillenormand, if you'll excuse me, Messieurs. Cosette?" The older man stood, his height and muscular build still surprising to the students, even though he had become a familiar visitor over the past week and a half.

"Oh, Papa, might I stay here in the parlor? I'd like to get to know the Messieurs a bit better, if that's alright with you." The girl pleaded. Enjolras carefully took a seat at the end of the settee where Prouvaire lay reclined with his leg extended. Monsieur Fauchelevent appeared worried as he glanced at the six young men, particularly Marius and Courfeyrac. Enjolras nearly grinned in amusement at how quickly Monsieur Fauchelevent had been able to figure out the flirtatious nature of the chocolate haired boy, but restrained himself. Combeferre saved him from having to make a reply, which was all the better since even Julien was better educated than he where women were involved.

"You have my sincerest assurance, Monsieur, your daughter has nothing to worry about in regards to any of us being untoward or inappropriate in any manner." His friend promised, his voice deeply sincere.

Of course. No wonder the older man appeared to have a good deal of trepidation at the prospect of leaving his daughter alone in a room with six young men who were all but strangers. Enjolras almost wanted to kick himself for not understanding immediately the cause for the man's worry, but it couldn't be helped; the only women he ever willingly conversed with were his mother and Madame Hucheloup, he'd never allowed himself to have any interest in pursuing an amorous relationship of any sort in his short life, not when there were other, much more pressing things to focus on. He wracked his brain for something a cousin of his had once told him when he was a child, about women and propriety. Ah yes, _It is considered highly inappropriate for a woman to be left unchaperoned while in the presence of a man._

He looked up at Monsieur Fauchelevent, "The decision of course rests solely with you, Monsieur, though I can attest to Combeferre's words. We were all raised respectfully."

Monsieur Fauchelevent looked between the students, then to Cosette. She returned his gaze hopefully, but he couldn't grant her this wish. It wasn't that he did not trust the young men, but she could sometimes be too curious for her own good, and he feared some topic of conversation arising that would upset or frighten her. The boys were all students, they'd all been raised in well-to-do households, but they were still men, and men often spoke of things not suitable for ladies' ears. "Maybe next time, Mon Cher. I'm sure you'll have no shortage of time to talk to the young Messieurs once they arrive at our home."

Cosette's face fell a bit, but she stood gracefully from her seat without arguing. The Amis all clambered to their feet as she rose, all except for Jehan, whom was shoved back down on the settee by Joly. Marius had clumsily struggled to his feet before any of the other Amis could stop him, and he leaned heavily on the cane that he'd been supplied with, but he waved off Courfeyrac when the older man moved to help him. A sharp breath escaped his clenched teeth

"Oh, Marius, please rest. You're trembling." Cosette fretted, flitting over to him and touching his shoulder in concern. Her father looked at the two in concern, before moving to help before Marius lost his balance. Joly had moved in as well, but couldn't do much more than fret due to his bandaged shoulder.

"I'm fine, it's nothing. Just a smidge of pain." Marius tried to protest, but his voice betrayed the pain he was feeling as he hunched over the cane.

"I think you've had enough excitement for one day, Monsieur Pontmercy. Courfeyrac, Lad, would you care to help me get him upstairs to rest?" Monsieur Fauchelevent requested as he helped Marius to lean against him for support, something the young man didn't appear to be too proud of. Courfeyrac heeded the request, and looked back over his shoulder at Prouvaire as he helped the wounded boy up the stairs.

"We'd best get you upstairs as well. I believe the doctor is due to arrive to check upon you both sometime today." He warned. Combeferre nodded sagely, beckoning to Enjolras to help him. Joly followed, annoyed that he couldn't do anything to help.

A few minutes later and both men were settled in their respective rooms, and Monsieur Fauchelevent disappeared down the stairs with Cosette trailing behind to go speak with M. Gillenormand. Marius had opted to rest, so the remaining men gathered in Jehan's room. Combeferre took the single chair in the room, while Courfeyrac and Joly perched on the foot of Prouvaire's bed. Enjolras simply leaned against the wall.

"You trust him, Julien?" He asked abruptly. Combeferre looked up at his friend, wishing, not for the first time, that Enjolras would be a bit more welcoming to charity. They all gave it freely without a problem, it was being on the receiving end that they felt uncomfortable with, Enjolras most of all.

"He's given us no reason not to. Quite the opposite, in fact. And you see how he dotes on the young Mademoiselle, how protective he is of her. Clearly he trusts us enough to allow us into his home. He openly admitted to not being one for entertaining guests in his home. He's obviously a very private person." Combeferre replied reasonably.

"But Enjolras does raise a valid point, Julien. I think it's quite clear to us that he was a convict at some point in his life, based on what I witnessed between him and the Police Inspector Javert. Though what his crime was has yet to be determined." Courfeyrac interjected. Joly started in surprise; this was news to him. Prouvaire had been made aware of what Courfeyrac had witnessed during the days spent recovering from the fever that had ravaged his body soon after their arrival.

"Well, listen: my figuring is that if Monsieur Fauchelevent had been arrested for any violent crime, then Inspector Javert would not have let him go free during their encounter outside the sewer. Also, Cosette is clearly not afraid of him, or nervous. Whatever it was, we can always sit down and discuss it with him at a later date, if he's willing." Combeferre answered calmly.

"You haven't answered my question, Julien. Do _you_ trust him?" Enjolras implored, not taking his eyes off his friends.

"Yes, Enjolras. I trust him. Until he gives me reason not to, I trust him quite a bit." Julien sighed, not so much in irritation as the ever present worry about his friend's seeming inability to trust people.

"Pardon, but _what_ exactly are you three talking about?" Joly interrupted, aghast.

"Sorry, Joly, I forgot you don't know. We've determined that, well, based on an encounter Courfeyrac overheard in the streets the night after the fighting ceased. He'd gone to fetch water, and….he happened across Monsieur Fauchelevent at the sewage drains. Turns out he had escaped the barricade with Marius through the sewers! Well, the police spy, the one whom we apprehended at the barricade, Javert, he was there. Monsieur Fauchelevent had not executed him as we'd thought. And they had a sort of confrontation, Javert seemed as if he was going to either arrest him or shoot him, but he let him go free. Though he addressed Monsieur Fauchelevent with a number rather than a name, a prison number." Combeferre explained, with a furtive glance towards the door to ensure that the man in question was not nearby.

"So….Monsieur Fauchelevent is a _convict?_ " Joly stuttered in shock, his eyes wide.

"Was, I believe, at one time. Inspector Javert, according to Courf, seemed to know him. Our guess is that the Inspector was likely a prison guard at the time when Monsieur Fauchelevent was incarcerated, and stationed at the same prison." Combeferre replied.

"But, and thank you for reminding me of this Combeferre, he did risk his own life in order to save Marius, and all for the sake of his daughter. Regardless of whatever crime he committed, I'd say that sounds quite trustworthy to me." Courfeyrac added, looking to Enjolras for confirmation.

"You raise a good point, Courfeyrac. I – " Enjolras's reply was cut off by a knock at the door. His brow furrowed slightly, and he moved to open the door, coming face to face with the Doctor.

"Good Afternoon, Monsieur Enjolras. Messieurs." Doctor Lefevre greeted as he entered the room at a gesture from Enjolras. All the students, save of course for Prouvaire, stood as the middle aged man entered the room. Joly started violently upon recognizing his instructor, and vice versa.

"Monsieur Joly! What a most pleasant surprise!" The doctor exclaimed, his careworn face quickly splitting into a wide grin as he set down his medical bag and clasped Joly's hand firmly.

"Médecin Lefevre, the pleasure is all mine. Please accept my most humble apology as to my absence from my shifts at the hospital." Joly returned the handshake and gave a slight bow, wincing slightly as his injured shoulder throbbed at the movement.

"I was concerned when Monsieur Combeferre told me that you had become separated from them at the Barricade, and that they could not find you. You do not know how happy I am to see that you all have been reunited, and that you are alive. Your presence has been greatly missed by all of us at the Necker."

"Monsieur, forgive me, but, you do not seem surprised that we were at the barricades?"

"Monsieur Joly, I must confess to you that I have been a supporter of the Revolution for about as long as you five have been alive. I've never been physically involved in it, however. That is unless treating you all's injuries counts at all. Though it does shock me that you of all students would be involved in it, I never would have thought you to be one to have a hand in attempting to overthrow our government."

"Five years ago, I would not have envisioned myself being involved either, Monsieur. Enjolras helped convince me to stop wishing for change and start doing something about it." Joly replied with a half smile.

"Well, nonetheless, I'm glad to see you here. Now, Monsieur Prouvaire, how are we feeling today?" Doctor Lefevre turned his attention to Jehan as he moved to the bedside.

"As good as can be expected, I suppose, Monsieur." Jehan cracked a humorless smile, beginning to shift himself into an upright position, only allowing the corner of his mouth to jerk in response to the soreness along his torso.

"A sight better than my last visit, most definitely. I almost feared we were going to lose you at one point to the infection. No sign of returning fever?" The doctor asked as he checked Prouvaire's pulse on the inside of his wrist, his lips moving slightly as he counted the younger man's heartbeats, using his pocket watch as a reference.

"Non, Monsieur, I have not noticed any sign of it returning." Combeferre replied, for he'd been the one keeping the closest eye on Marius and Prouvaire, since he knew more about medicine than either Enjolras or Courfeyrac.

"Very good." The doctor tucked his pocket watch back into his trousers, "How have you been eating? How are your energy levels?"

"For the first couple of days I could eat nothing but a meager amount of broth, I was hardly able to keep even that down. These past two days I've been able to join everyone downstairs for at least supper. But I tire easily, despite the amount of rest I have been trying to get." Prouvaire said before he could stop himself. Doctor Lefevre cast a disapproving look at him.

"I do believe I ordered you to remain in bed, Young Man." He clicked his tongue in disapproval as he folded the bed sheets back, and began unraveling the thick bandage from around the poet's lower leg.

"I tried to keep him upstairs, Monsieur, to no avail. I figured a compromise would be reasonable if he only made brief forays downstairs. He's only been on his feet two or three times, and only then with assistance." Combeferre explained apologetically.

"I worry only that it may have extended the recovery time, even just those few minutes spent on your feet, Monsieur." Doctor Lefevre murmured as he tugged the last of the old bandage free from Jehan's leg and cast it on to the floor beside his medical bag. He gestured to Joly, "See here, Monsieur Joly, this should be easy enough for you, we covered sutures and lacerations quite awhile ago."

Joly moved to stand next to his mentor as the latter examined Jehan. This was the first time he'd seen the near-crippling wound that had rendered his friend abed. The black thread holding the jagged wound closed stood out starkly against the pale skin, and the edges of the wound itself were puckered red and raw. There was evidence of residual bleeding, as well as a small amount of pus draining from the bottom of the main line of stitches, where the skin was more swollen than the rest of the injury.

"What do you say, Monsieur Joly?" Doctor Lefevre prompted. Jehan glanced at Joly, appearing slightly nauseated. Joly smiled weakly at him, and turned his attention back to his friend's leg. Enjolras remained in the corner with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, and all three caught the moment that Joly shed his normal nervous persona and became the sure footed, analytical, quick thinking young doctor he was training to be.

"If I didn't know the backstory of this injury, I would say it's roughly a week old, showing signs of infection. It has started to heal, but the process has been slowed, likely by previous infection. I'd recommend removing the sutures at least partially, to allow for drainage of bacteria, though that is dependent on the risk of muscle damage or how much has already been sustained, as it's clearly a deep wound." Joly observed keenly, "Prouvaire, will it hurt too much if I touch it?"

The gentle natured man moved his glance down to Joly, studiously avoiding looking at his leg, "I will tell you if it becomes too much."

Joly nodded once to signal that he'd heard him, and gently prodded the irritated skin around the sutures, feeling the heat and where the swelling seemed most severe. He felt the skin close to where the drainage was coming from, and immediately Jehan let out a pained hiss, gritting his teeth. Joly immediately removed his hands, "I'm sorry, forgive me Jehan. Médecin Lefevre, I believe the wound may need to be opened up. It looks like it is trying to fester." He caught sight of a small incision just above his friend's ankle, which appeared several days old and sported a purple bruise encircling it. He frowned in disapproval.

"Did you bleed him, Médecin Lefevre?"

Doctor Lefevre took a closer look at Prouvaire's leg, pursing his lips in concern as he examined the wound for himself, though he spared a quick glance at Joly, "I did, a day or two after my initial treatment. He'd developed an infection and taken a bad turn, I felt it was my only option."

The doctor fell quiet again for several long minutes as he continued his examination, "I believe you're right, Monsieur Joly. I had hoped it wouldn't come to this." He said finally.

"Come to what, Doctor?" Courfeyrac spoke up nervously, his brow furrowed worriedly.

The doctor looked up and met Courfeyrac's concerned brown eyes, but directed his words to Prouvaire, "Your leg is becoming infected again, Son. It's trying to fester, and if I do not reopen the wound and flush it out completely and deal with any necrosis, if there is any, then it will almost certainly develop gangrene and then I would have to amputate."

Jehan's eyes widened, and he struggled for a reply. He caught Enjolras steady, if a bit unnerving, stare from across the room, and the blond man gave the tiniest nod of encouragement. Surgery was a big undertaking, risky to the patient, only ever used as a last resort.

"Surgery?" He finally whispered. The doctor looked at him apologetically.

"I'm afraid so, Monsieur Prouvaire. But please try not to worry yourself. This will not be a very invasive operation. I merely wish to disinfect the wound more throughly and treat this infection before it takes hold. It can hardly be called surgery, even." The doctor comforted matter-of-factly, before looking at Combeferre.

"On normal circumstances, I should like to move him to the hospital for the surgery, but I know that is out of the question for him. But nonetheless, as I said, it can hardly be counted as surgery, it should not take more than an hour or two. I am merely reopening the wound, and disinfecting it, and then suturing it closed with fresh stitches." The older man explained, sounding confident in his plan.

"When would you want to proceed with this, Monsieur?" Jehan asked, sounding a bit more assured upon hearing that the procedure would be neither invasive nor time-consuming.

"I should like to get it done with as quickly as possible. Infections can take frightful turns quite quickly if they are allowed to run their course, as you've experienced already."

"Shall I fetch Monsieur Gillenormand and Monsieur Fauchelevent, and inform them of your plans, Monsieur?" Combeferre spoke up, his spectacles starting to slide down his nose.

"That would be most helpful, Monsieur Combeferre." Doctor Lefevre replied, "Joly, Lad, I would ask for your assistance, as you need the experience, but I doubt you'd be much help with that shoulder of yours. I'll want to take a look at that once I am finished with Monsieur Pontmercy after I complete this work here."

"Of course, Médecin Lefevre. Might I stand by so as to observe your work?" Joly answered respectfully, still in his mindset of young doctor. His gaze followed Combeferre as the other student touched Courfeyrac's elbow and jerked his chin toward the door, signaling the younger man to follow him as he left the room to inform the two elder occupants of the house of the happenings in Prouvaire's quarters.

"I believe that may be best suited for another time, once you return to classes and your shifts at the Necker. You _are_ planning to return to your studies?" Doctor Lefevre regrettably declined, but pressing the young man for an answer concerning his classes. Joly appeared startled for several moments at the unexpected question. He'd figured such a question would be asked sooner or later, but certainly not while his mentor was preparing for a medical procedure! He looked at Enjolras for help, but his chief simply stared back with his trademark stony expression, though his eyes held a mildly curious light in them, as if he were awaiting Joly's answer as well.

"I hope to, Monsieur, I miss my shifts at the Necker and I regret suddenly abandoning my work and patients without notice." Joly finally replied, stepping back out of the doctor's way as the older man began to remove equipment from his medical bag. Curiously enough to Enjolras, a thick square of leather was among the items, and he noted Joly's uncomfortable reaction to this item being drawn out.

"Well, I for one, as well as the rest of my colleagues and many of your student peers hope to see your return soon. It was quite the talk when you suddenly stopped arriving for your shifts and attending your anatomy classes. There were no suspicions of your involvement in the uprising, however. It was brought up in passing, but the popular opinion was that you did not possess the temperament needed to be involved in the Revolutionary circles." The doctor replied, but before Joly could answer, the bedroom door swung open once more to reveal Combeferre and Courfeyrac, only with Monsieur Fauchelevent trailing them this time. The old man briefly turned in the doorway to speak over his shoulder.

"Please stay out here in the hall, Cosette. This isn't something you need to witness." Enjolras heard him murmur quietly, and the girl's soft response floated through the open door.

"Yes, Papa. Might I go visit with Marius while I'm waiting?"

"I believe he's resting at the moment, Child. This should not take too long, and the doctor will be attending to Marius once he's finished in here. You can visit a bit then." Monsieur Fauchelevent promised, before gently shutting the door in her face. He turned to face the rest of the men.

"Monsieur Combeferre said that Monsieur Prouvaire here has begun to develop another infection?" He sounded slightly alarmed as he addressed the doctor, taking in the supplies laid out and the angry red site of the sutures on Prouvaire's leg. The doctor turned to look at the older man.

"Indeed, though thankfully it has been caught early enough that it should be quite easy for me to treat. His body is still weak from fighting off the prior infection, and this weakness is what made it so easy for a secondary infection to begin to take hold. I must reopen the wound and flush it out and disinfect it once more. Is Monsieur Gillenormand agreeable to this?"

"He requested that I relay to you to do whatever you deem necessary, Monsieur. He said he did not wish to witness the procedure." Combeferre spoke up.

"That's quite alright. As a side note, I will have to ask you all to exit the room, for Monsieur Prouvaire's privacy." The doctor requested.

"No, I'd like them to stay, please." Prouvaire said from the bed. Doctor Lefevre sighed in response.

"Very well, though I must warn you all, it will not be pleasant to watch, but I must order you all to remain out of the way until I'm finished."

"Unpleasant in what way, Doctor?" Prouvaire asked nervously, still refusing to look down at his leg. Enjolras resisted the urge to approach the bedside, mindful of the doctor's request.

"I will not be able to give you any laudanum this time around, Lad. You will be conscious the entire time, and it will be painful."

"Joly?" Prouvaire asked, looking to his friend for confirmation that he'd heard the doctor correctly. Enjolras curled his hands into fists at this information, and Combeferre grasped his elbow in warning to keep him where he stood.

"He's right, Jehan. Laudanum is too potent to administer for this type of procedure, it is normally reserved for patients who have gone mad with pain, or those who are delirious enough that they are unaware of their surroundings. It's done to protect the doctors and nurses from injury during initial treatment." Joly affirmed the doctor's words apologetically, not meeting the poet's eyes. A knock at the floor drew everyone's attention, and the doctor went to open it, revealing the dark haired maid with a basin of hot water and clean rags.

"Monsieur Gillenormand instructed me to deliver these to you, Monsieur." She curtsied quickly, keeping her eyes lowered.

"Yes, thank you, Mademoiselle." The doctor took the items, closing the door behind him and returning to the bedside. He gently lifted up Prouvaire's legs just enough to spread a clean white sheet between them and the mattress, and then picked up a small pair of gleaming scissors. Jehan tensed as he caught sight of them.

"Lie still my boy, this part will not hurt too bad." The doctor carefully began snipping the sutures apart, and removing the pieces of thread from the younger man's skin. Jehan winced at the tugging on his irritated skin, and he flinched, with the doctor quickly placing his free hand on Jehan's ankle to hold his leg still.

"Almost finished, Lad. Just a few more." And indeed, a few moments more and the doctor pulled the last bit of thread from Prouvaire's leg, leaving the laceration open and exposed. Almost immediately the wound began draining more heavily, blood and pus quickly soiling the clean sheet that had been placed between Prouvaire's legs and the mattress. The doctor quickly pressed one of the clean rags firmly against the exposed flesh to staunch the drainage, holding it there with one hand as he picked up the folded square of leather.

"Son, I must warn you, this is going to be painful. I need to flush this out and disinfect it, and it will not be pleasant. I need you to bite this, as hard as you can, and not take it out until I am finished."

Prouvaire hesitantly opened his mouth, and let the doctor press the leather between his teeth. Jehan bit down, trying not to gag on the thick material. Joly briefly stepped up to the bedside and squeezed his shoulder in reassurance before returning to stand next to their friends. Monsieur Fauchelevent stood alongside them, a calming presence amid the tense air surrounding the younger men. So focused was Jehan on his friends, that he'd not noticed the doctor opening the same bottle of antiseptic that he'd used on his first visit. He just barely caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and braced himself just in time. The doctor had drenched a rag in the yellowish liquid, and the smell of alcohol permeated the air as he began gently scrubbing the wound clean. Poor Jehan could not hold back a pained moan at the burning sensation, and though the other young men in the room, as well as M. Fauchelevent, were more than disturbed by the muffled noise, though the doctor appeared deaf to it.

Once the wound was clean, the doctor began cutting out bits of necrotic flesh, and thankfully for Prouvaire this was next to painless, only drawing a slight whimper from him every once in a while. The doctor worked efficiently, not saying a word aside from some quiet mumblings under his breath as he hunched intently over Jehan's leg. Every few minutes he had to sponge out the fresh blood that continued to seep from the open flesh, and it wasn't long before the water in the basin was tinged pink.

Finally, after almost an hour, the doctor sat up with a resigned expression on his face as he continued to hold the rag firmly against the wound. Jehan had a deep crease in his forehead from tension, and he breathed rapidly through his nose as though the gag in his mouth was making him short of breath.

"He's okay. The gag is thick enough that it sometimes makes patients feel as though they cannot draw in enough air, but he can breath perfectly fine." Joly muttered comfortingly to Courfeyrac. The doctor's voice – rather, the tone of it – drew Joly's attention, and his gaze snapped to meet that of his instructor. An all too familiar nervous feeling settled itself in his stomach.

"This is going to have to be cauterized, I am afraid. The bleeding has not stopped, even that from my first treatment. I knew I would regret bleeding him to draw out the infection at my last visit, it's not something I trust or place much faith in anymore. But he cannot lose any more blood in the current state his body's in, and the sutures did not stop it as I had hoped. These types of injuries are typically only seen in soldiers during war….though quite frankly that is exactly what he is. Cauterization is the best option." Doctor Lefevre explained, his expression full of regret. In his twenty-one years of being a doctor, the notion of having to intentionally cause any patient additional pain, even if it was necessary to treat whatever ailment they were suffering from, had never sat well with him, especially extreme pain like that of cauterizing.

Joly had figured this as a possible outcome, and wasn't surprised, though he couldn't resist throwing a pitying look at his dear friend laying on the bed. He'd performed two cauterizations at the Necker, once on a soldier injured during training, and the other on a man who'd had his arm amputated after a carpentry accident. Their screams had haunted him for weeks after both procedures.

Courfeyrac and Enjolras appeared a tad confused by the word, though Enjolras's expression quickly morphed into one of understanding, as if he simply had lost the meaning of the word momentarily.

"Cauterizing a wound is a way of sealing it, preventing spread of infection, or stopping severe blood loss. It's done by, in layman's terms, burning the wound, with a hot iron." Joly muttered in a low aside to his friend. Predictably, Courfeyrac's eyes almost popped out of his head. He'd heard the term in passing, of course, and knew it involved heat, but had never bothered to learn the specifics. This sounded medieval, barbaric, and most definitely _not_ something he wished his friend to experience.

"What – and it is the only option?" He replied in an equally hushed tone.

"If Médecin Lefevre wants to do it, then it is the only option left aside from amputation. He does not take such procedures lightly. It's painful, but the good outweighs the bad."

"Monsieur Joly, I need you to go downstairs and fetch someone to light a fire in the fireplace up here, if you please." The doctor spoke up. Joly nodded solemnly, and quickly left the room. Enjolras took this time to approach the bedside, as did Combeferre, though Courfeyrac and Monsieur Fauchelevent stayed back. The older man put a hand on Courfeyrac's shoulder, the poor boy looked more than likely to fall faint at the impending procedure than Jehan! Though in the latter's defense, he was laying back in the bed with his eyes closed, breathing slowly through his nose. The gag still lay clenched between his teeth. Combeferre carefully removed the folded leather and set it aside.

"It'll be over with quickly, my friend. Are you alright?" He asked in concern. Jehan opened his eyes and though they could clearly see the pain etched there, when he spoke his voice was strong, if a bit husky.

"I'll be fine. It can't be that bad." The poet broke off as he saw Enjolras open his mouth, "Don't you say otherwise René Enjolras. Better for me to expect it not to hurt and it hurt, rather than expecting pain and having it hurt worse than I imagined. You see my logic?"

Enjolras couldn't, but didn't bother replying, simply closing his mouth and stepping back, returning silently to lean against the wall with an impassive stare. Combeferre remained at the bedside for just a moment more, and murmured a few words to their friend before moving to join the others. The door opened then, and all the men in the room including the doctor turned to look at Joly as he stepped through the threshold, and ushered in the young dark haired maid behind him. She curtsied quickly, despite the full basket of firewood she carried in one hand and the already-lit candle she held in the other. She went straight to the fireplace on the opposite wall from where the men stood and knelt in front of it, busying herself with preparing the fire the doctor had requested.

"Do you need it very hot, Monsieur?" She spoke only once.

"Yes, as hot as you can make it, please." Doctor Lefevre replied, readying his tools. Namely, an iron rod with a flat, curved piece on one end. Jehan's eyes widened from his spot on the bed – the thing looked like a torture device! The maid quickly built the fire up and left the room, and soon the hearth crackled merrily, though the sound was far from comforting.

Combeferre quickly found himself having to loosen his cravat and divest himself of his vest as the fire heated the room, adding to the already-warm temperature of the summer air. The doctor calmly knelt in front of the fire, holding the curved end of the cauter in the flames, turning it slowly as the metal heated. After several long minutes he spoke up, as the cauter began to glow a dull orange inside the hearth.

"I am going to need the two strongest amongst you to help me hold him still, if you please."

Combeferre frowned and looked at Enjolras, who in turn passed his gaze over both him and Courfeyrac.

"Enjolras, you are the strongest among us…." Courfeyrac stated in a low voice. Combeferre nodded, not missing how the younger man's gaze flickered briefly towards Monsieur Fauchelevent. The older man seemed to notice it as well, and spoke up.

"Monsieur Enjolras, if you will assist me, I shall help."

Enjolras nodded once, a severe expression marring his face. He was not made of marble at this instant, but rather granite. He went over to bed without a word, and gently, almost tenderly, pressed the folded piece of leather in between Prouvaire's teeth. Monsieur Fauchelevent took his place on the other side of the bed, and they both braced themselves, firmly holding the poet's arms and legs still. Enjolras was careful to place his hold on Jehan's injured limb just above his knee, away from the injury. The doctor drew the cauter out of the fire finally, and approached the bed, the metal glowing bright red. Prouvaire clenched his jaw against the leather gag in his mouth, and shallow breaths made his chest rise and fall rapidly as he tried to remain calm. The doctor wasted no time, "Hold him, please."

Enjolras tightened his hold on his friend, using his weight to his advantage to keep Prouvaire as still as possible. Monsieur Fauchelevent did the same, though did not appear to be nearly straining as was Enjolras. In fact the older man seemed even larger than he normally appeared with his arms flexed and shoulders braced, Combeferre noticed in shock, for he was already quite a large man.

"Facile, mon Ami." Enjolras murmured comfortingly, and the doctor quickly lowered the cauter onto the exposed flesh, pressing hard to seal the wound.

Jehan's scream was terrible, the gag doing nearly nothing to muffle the sound, and it chilled everyone in the room to the bone. Combeferre, from his vantage point across the room dropped a firm hand on Courfeyrac's shoulder, at the same time noticing the haunted expression on Monsieur Fauchelevent's face as Jehan cried out in agony again, struggling desperately against the restraint of Enjolras and the old man's grip. The awful odor of burning skin curled through the air in wisps of white smoke, and Julien cringed upon hearing sizzling from the wound. Joly appeared highly disturbed, but unsurprised by the redhead's reaction. Enjolras's heart broke at the sight of his gentle-natured friend in so much pain, but the stony expression on his face didn't crack. Only his eyes betrayed his upset.

The doctor lifted the iron tool from the wound after a few moments, checking to ensure that it was cauterized completely. Unfortunately for Jehan, it was not, and he sobbed frightfully amid his screaming as the doctor pressed the rapidly cooling tool to his leg once more. He drew it away finally, and dropped it into a pail of water Joly had brought up. Steam hissed as the hot metal cooled under the water, and the doctor briefly laid a calming hand on Jehan's sweat-beaded forehead.

"If you could please stay where you are, Messieurs, while I stitch this up, it would be most helpful." He requested, quickly withdrawing a needle and thread from his bag.

The sutures were soon complete, and Prouvaire's lower leg was swathed in clean bandages. Doctor Lefevre gave the poor man a heavy dose of laudanum to make him rest, and they all left him quietly in the room. Courfeyrac stayed behind, and made himself comfortable in the armchair in the corner, despite being told that Prouvaire would sleep at least the next eight hours. Cosette was waiting outside the door, and Monsieur Fauchelevent gently grasped her arm, worried that she'd been disturbed by Prouvaire's cries.

"I'm alright, Papa. I promise. How is he?" She asked in her lilting voice, catching a glimpse of the poet's lean form on the bed as the doctor closed the door.

"He is resting now, and he'll heal quickly now." The doctor answered. He gestured for the men to enter the room across the hall, and wasted no time in asking Joly to remove his shirt so he could examine the nearly two week old gunshot wound in his shoulder. He removed the bandage that was wrapped firmly around his shoulder, and hummed approvingly.

"Did you stitch this yourself, Monsieur?" Doctor Lefevre asked as he gently touched the sloppy sutures that stood out starkly against the pale skin of Joly's shoulder and the deep purple site of the entry wound.

"I did. My lady proved to not have enough of a steady hand." Joly admitted with a half smile that was devoid of any light.

"Well, they've done their job, even if they appear to have been done by a child! There's an exit wound, which is good. Minimal damage. Mighty sore, I believe I'm correct in assuming." The doctor chuckled, as he drew out his scissors and a needle and thread, along with the same bottle of disinfectant, "I am going to need a new bottle of this once I'm through with you lot."

"Apologies, Monsieur. Though it's not that expensive. It is mostly whiskey after all. Cheap whiskey at that." Joly bantered easily, though his voice was flat.

"Good thing Grantaire isn't here after all, then." Combeferre dead panned, with an affectionate yet melancholy look on his face.

The doctor paused in his restitching of Joly's shoulder, "Did you say 'Grantaire', Monsieur Combeferre?"

Julien turned a puzzled gaze upon the doctor. "I did, yes Monsieur. Ranier Grantaire is a good friend of ours."

"Funny you should mention that name. I believe I had a patient in several days ago under that name. Brought in for a head injury, which he'd clearly obtained under influence of the drink. I treated him and sent him on his way. What made him stick in my memory however was his demeanor. He was extremely withdrawn, quiet. He seemed in a state of shock, I admit I thought it quite odd at the time, but I merely slated it to be a side effect of the drink."

Combeferre was shocked. He'd known Grantaire for years, and never once had the eccentric man gone to the hospital for any injuries obtained from his drunken shenanigans. He and Joly had treated him more often than not after finding him in some unconventional location – usually in one of the corners of the café Musain or the Corinthe, or one morning collapsed in a heap outside the Enjolras's apartment. Combeferre had heard the furious shouting all the way at the opposite end of the hall in his own room when Enjolras had discovered the drunkard outside his door. He snuck a look at Enjolras from the corner of his eye, but his friend was expressionless as he listened.

"Did you happen to see which direction he went after he left the Necker?" Julien asked hopefully. The doctor shook his head as he tied off the last suture and snipped off the remaining thread.

"It was two or three days ago now that I saw him, Monsieur Combeferre. I am sorry, I did not see which direction he travelled after he left."

Combeferre sighed, "You have nothing to apologize for, Monsieur. He is still in Paris, at least."

"Grantaire is a creature of habit, Combeferre, do not forget. We'll find him. Madame Hucheloup and Musichetta both know he's alive and wandering, they'll keep an eye out, I've no doubt." Joly reassured him, standing and moving out of the way so that Julien could take his place.

"How is your arm, Monsieur Combeferre?" Doctor Lefevre asked as he removed the old bandage from Combeferre's arm, revealing the curved line of stitches extending from the end of his forearm to just past his elbow. The laceration was scabbed over where the stitches held the skin together, and shiny, pink new skin was forming along the edges.

"Still aches a bit, and it itches, but aside from that it seems to be healing nicely." Combeferre replied.

"I'd expect for it to give you bit of discomfort for the next two weeks or so….it is not a terribly deep wound but it's enough to take longer to heal. The itching is from the sutures, and the healing of the wound itself. The sutures can be removed, so long as you are mindful of your arm for the next week at the minimum. It's healing splendidly, though you will have a noticeable scar once it heals completely."

"I'd say then that it's good that I do not write with my left hand then, Monsieur. A scar isn't worrisome, so long as it's hidden by my clothing." Julien replied amiably. The doctor smiled in amusement as he carefully cut the thread and removed each suture. It was a tedious task, and took the middle aged man several long minutes, though it was only mildly uncomfortable for Julien. The doctor placed the scissors aside finally, and quickly wrapped Combeferre's arm in a clean bandage.

"There may be a small amount of residual bleeding, and aside from absorbing that, the bandage will help to keep it clean."

"Thank you, Monsieur, for all you continue to do for us. It is most gratefully appreciated. Truly." Combeferre shook the doctor's hand as he stood and rolled down his shirtsleeve. He glanced then at Monsieur Fauchelevent and Cosette, and opened his mouth to speak as he turned his gaze back on Doctor Lefevre, but hesitated. The older man cocked his head quizzically, waiting for him to speak.

"Monsieur….how wise is it to move Prouvaire? We are taking up lodging with Monsieur Fauchelevent and his daughter at their home starting tomorrow, and it just occurred to me that it will be painful for Prouvaire to travel by coach." Combeferre finally asked. The doctor frowned deeply at his words, but before he could answer, Enjolras suddenly scowled and strode from the room, his footsteps echoing hollowly as he descended the stairs. Everyone else in the room was quiet for a moment, until Combeferre cleared his throat.

"I apologize, Doctor, Monsieur Fauchelevent. He is not himself since the Uprising. None of us are, but Enjolras has been affected the most out of us all."

"It is to be expected, grief takes many forms. As answer to your earlier question, it will indeed be painful to move him, although traveling by coach will be the least jarring to his body. May I inquire as to where you live, Monsieur Fauchelevent? Simply as to gain an idea of how long Monsieur Prouvaire will be traveling." The doctor replied. Monsieur Fauchelevent appeared just the slightest bit unnerved at the question, and his hesitation was barely noticeable to Combeferre.

"I hold residence on the Rue Plumet, near the Champ de Mars. It is approximately an hour to reach by carriage, dependent on how crowded the streets are, of course." The older man answered.

The doctor was slow in his answer, "I should think that as long as he is supported, and his leg is not jostled anymore than necessary, then he should be fine. I must stress the importance of getting him off his feet as soon as possible after his arrival at your home, Monsieur Fauchelevent. His leg is far too weak to be of any weight bearing use presently, it is imperative that he remain off of it for some time."

"I shall make sure he remains in bed or in a chair at all times, Monsieur. And of course you are more than welcome to call at my home to check up on his recovery as you see fit."

"I will do that. What is your address, I should like to stop by two or three days from now, to ensure that the young man's leg is healing properly."

"I live at 25 Rue Plumet; it's not the most prettily landscaped property, though you cannot miss it." Monsieur Fauchelevent replied.

"Very good. Now, I must see to Monsieur Pontmercy. He will be remaining abed for quite a bit longer than Monsieur Prouvaire, due to the location and severity of his injuries. Monsieur Fauchelevent you are welcome to join me, I'll send for a maid to bring up hot water and rags. However, I must ask the rest of you to remain outside the room, I'd prefer not to stress the young Monsieur any further. Your friend was an exception, as your presence helped to keep him calm, though I normally do not allow onlookers while a patient is being treated. Mademoiselle Fauchelevent, I am afraid I must ask you to remain outside as well - it's not appropriate to see even an injured man undressed." The doctor gathered the suturing tools back into his bag, and prepared to leave the room. The Fauchelevents and Joly filed out of the room ahead of him. Combeferre stopped the doctor right as he turned to go into the hall.

"Monsieur? Forgive me, I'd like to ask you something about Enjolras. I am very worried about him."

"You are not the only one, Lad. I've gathered that this is not normal behavior for him." Doctor Lefevre replied slowly.

"Non, Monsieur. This behavior, I have never seen him this way, and I have known him since I was a child. He's been having nightmares. Violent ones, every night. It's difficult to wake him from them, and he has begun refusing to sleep. We had to nearly force him to take a meager dose of Laudanum last night so that he would some decent rest. He is also not eating as much as he usually does, and seems to have lost weight. His eyes appear clouded, almost. He is grieving, and in mourning, I know. All of us are, though we've been trying to for the time being. He is merely a shadow of the man he usually is. The lack of sleep is not helping, either."

"Unfortunately, I do not think speaking with him would do any good. He doesn't appear to be the type man who is easy to discuss things with, particularly matters concerning his well-being. Not altogether uncommon in men, but in him it seems to be an unusually high level of stubbornness."

"That is how he is, Monsieur. Joly and I have debated ourselves to the point of exhaustion when trying to persuade him to eat more or attain enough sleep to function. He is what one might call a _Perfectionniste._ He never does anything halfway, including mourning. I'm very worried about his health. He eats next to nothing at every meal, spends most of every day in his room. And of course, the nightmares." Julien explained, his eyebrows knit together in concern for his friend. The doctor sighed deeply, and set down his medical bag.

"Of all the ailments I am called to treat, grief is the one for which I have no cure, no medicine, no painkiller. Your friend needs to feel it, his mind needs to process it, and he needs to mourn your lost friends, you all do. To bottle it up is only damaging to your own well being. Grief, as painful as it is, is an emotion that we need to come to terms with and accept. The pain of losing your friends, it will never go away, but it will ease over time. This I can promise. My advice for Monsieur Enjolras, and for all of you young men, is this: Rest. Support each other. As for the nightmares, of which I am sure Monsieur Enjolras is not the only one of you suffering from them, my best advice is to physically exhaust your energy. Exercise or physical activity of some sort several hours before you retire for the evening. When the body is very tired, one tends to sleep deeper, and deep sleep tends to harbor less room for nightmares. You can continue to give him small doses of laudanum if he suffers from insomnia, as you or Monsieur Joly see fit."

"Monsieur, you have my sincerest thanks. I pray that he will soon start to become more of his normal self." Combeferre bowed respectfully.

"You are quite welcome, my boy. Now, I must see to Monsieur Pontmercy, don't strain yourself with that arm, you hear?" Doctor Lefevre kindly ordered, picking up his bag once more and leaving the room. Combeferre stood in the middle of the room for a moment, and then ventured out into the hall, with, if their childhood was anything to go by, an idea of where Enjolras had wandered off to. His mind made up, he poked his head in the doorway of Prouvaire's room to tell Courfeyrac where to find him, and then set off down the stairs.

OOO

Enjolras hadn't intended to venture out to the stable, but he didn't turn back once he found himself walking through the threshold into the dim-lit building. He felt the tension begin to loosen its hold in his shoulders and back as he inhaled the scent of hay and the leathery aroma of large animals. He sighed deeply, and leaned against the brick wall, letting his knees bend until he was sitting on the floor. The stable boy was nowhere to be seen, and for that René was thankful. He did not need any witnesses to his moment of weakness, not even Combeferre. The fall of the Barricade was _his_ failure, and his alone. If he'd only rallied harder, had more pamphlets made, resisted the law more and hid his group less. Maybe the People would not have cowered in fear when the Barricades rose up. Maybe they would have succeeded. They'd alone taken over half the city in the span of a day with the aid of the other Republican Groups, or rather, their group aiding the larger ones. If the People had risen, they very likely would have succeeded. But only if. It was a scenario that had not taken form as they had thought it would. His years of work, all seemingly destroyed in the span of two days.

A snort drew him out of his self-destructive thoughts, and he looked up from where he'd been gazing at his hands draped over his knees. Across the aisle, one of the horses, the dark bay mare, had hooked her head over her stall door and extended it towards him in curiosity, her ears tipped forward. Enjolras stared back, and cast his eyes along the row of stalls. The four harness horses stood calmly, focused on their racks of hay, the sounds of contented chewing meeting his ears. As he gazed toward the last stall, he saw the chestnut gelding – Beau, such an unflattering name for such a dignified animal – was far from calm like his stablemates. The horse paced circles in his stall, pausing every few moments to throw his head out into the aisle and stare out the open doorway, his fiery red coat was covered with patches of sweat. Enjolras slowly got to his feet and carefully approached the gelding. The horse eyed him suspiciously, but calmed somewhat when he extended his hand for him to smell.

"Now, whatever is the matter with you?" He murmured, running his hands over the gelding's face and neck. Beau exhaled loudly, and Enjolras took hold of his leather halter and carefully let himself into the stall with the horse. As he slid the bolt back in place on the door, the horse shoved his nose against Enjolras's chest, and he sternly poked the animal's chest in reprimand, causing the horse to lower his head and take a step back.

"That was uncalled for, you hear? Behave yourself." He muttered, giving the horse a pat on the shoulder. Beau exhaled gently and lowered his refined head, calmly allowing René to pet him. A few minutes of this, and René turned and peered out into the aisle for any sign of a grooming box. Not seeing one, he let himself out of the stall and stepped into the tack room, where the warm, sharp smell of oiled leather permeated the air. Glowing harness traces hung neatly on one wall, and the shiny brass buckles reflected the dim light. The bridles hung next to each of the three saddle racks, which were each occupied by a well made saddle. He found what he was looking for on a shelf on the far wall, and carried the wooden box back to the stall.

He put his mind to currying the horse's sleek summer coat, and the animal leaned into his brush strokes, enjoying the attention. Not that the gelding was dirty by any means, in fact he had not a speck of dirt or dust on him. Nevertheless, Enjolras kept up his thorough grooming – it seemed to satisfy the horse, and calm him, not to mention aiding in distracting Enjolras from his own thoughts. He remained this way with the young horse for some time, until, upon bending to drop a bristle brush back into the grooming box, he suddenly became aware of another presence in the stable. A presence that was most definitely not a horse or barn cat. He straightened immediately, and turned turned to see Combeferre leaning against the doorframe at the entrance of the stable with his arms crossed over his chest.

"I thought I might find you here." The bespectacled man stated after a moment, dropping his arms and approaching as Enjolras let himself out of the stall.

"How long have you been standing there?" He asked, mildly irritated that his friend had not alerted him to his presence.

"Only a few minutes. You left the room quite abruptly….are you alright?" Combeferre replied, his eyebrows lowered in concern.

"I'm fine. I needed some air, is all." Enjolras picked up the grooming box and moved past the other man to return it to its spot in the tack room. Combeferre followed.

"René. Be honest with me. You forget I can see quite easily through your lies." He persisted, not accepting his answer. Enjolras set the box of brushes on the shelf and stepped past him once again.

"I said I'm fine. Nothing is the matter."

Combeferre wouldn't be swayed so easily, and reached out and grabbed his friend's shoulder, "Enjolras."

The man in question whirled to face him in exasperation, "What do you want me to say, Combeferre?!"

"I want you to tell me the truth." Combeferre all but begged, keeping a tight hold on his friend's shoulder and refusing to let him escape.

Enjolras stared at his oldest friend, wanting so badly to tell him everything that was haunting him. He opened his mouth, but the words stuck chokingly in his throat. He gazed pleadingly at his friend, trying to make him understand.

"Please, Julien." He hated saying those words more than he could express. Betraying any weakness, any hint of the pain he was feeling, went against his every instinct in his body. But it was a losing battle. Combeferre was not of blood relation to him, but he was his brother in almost every sense of the word, and he trusted him inexplicably, an honor that only he was graced with. Not even his own mother did he trust to the level he did Combeferre, not under his father's influence the way she was.

Thankfully, mercifully, Julien let the subject drop.

"This isn't over, René. I will not allow you to continue on this destructive cycle you have fallen into."

Enjolras set his jaw indignantly, preparing to object to his friend's words as his temper began to rise, "I – "

Combeferre cut him off, in such a way that had Enjolras not known the man as well as he did, that he would have thought he had not meant to speak over him. But upon hearing the words come out of the other man's mouth, and witnessing the deep sadness in his blue-green eyes behind his glasses, Enjolras felt any argument he'd had ready die on his tongue.

"And you should know….You are not the only one who has been having nightmares, mon Ami." His friend's voice was tired, and for the first time, Enjolras noticed just how much grief clouded his eyes and cloaked his body. Enjolras dropped his eyes in shame; how selfish he was being! Stewing in his own self-hatred and so lost in his own despair that he'd neglected to realize that he was not the only one of their fragmented group struggling with the consequences of their failure.

He felt Combeferre squeeze his shoulder in comfort, and looked up to meet his eyes.

"I am so sorry, Julien. I am being selfish."

"No, not selfish, my Friend. We are all in mourning, we are all in shock of the outcome of the Uprising. But its failure is not your fault, it is not our fault. Not even the People can take the blame. We all thought France was ready for a new life, but we were wrong. It's as you said on the Barricade: we were abandoned by those who still live in fear. When eventually that fear turns to anger and upset, then the People will rise up." Combeferre said gently.

"I just – I feel as though I led our friends to their deaths. They did not deserve to die, certainly not in the manner they did. And I left them, to their fates while we escaped."

Combeferre was shaking his head before he even finished,"No. No, René, that is not true. You mustn't think that way. There was nothing we could have done, we were trapped on the second floor. Bossuet all but ordered you up the stairs so that he could take your place. Bahorel, he was dying, and likely died before we had ever escaped the Musain. Joly told me this morning before you awoke that Feuilly was shielding him when he was shot. He was risking he himself being shot in order to save Joly. Enjolras, I have thought of them every day and every night since the fighting ended, I can still hear theirs and our other comrades' screams when I close my eyes at night. But it does not change the fact that they are gone, and that we will not see them again in this lifetime."

Enjolras's face, which up until this moment had been locked in its usual stony, impassive expression, crumpled at his words, and Combeferre could only watch in speechless horror as his dear friend began to cry. Only a handful of times had Julien witnessed Enjolras cry throughout the entire time they had known each other, and it unnerved him deeply. For Enjolras, _Enjolras_ of all possible people, to break down and cry in another's presence was nearly unheard of. Yes, he'd shed tears countless times in the past, but to openly cry as he was doing now? Combeferre doubted that even René's own mother had ever witnessed her son cry more than once or possibly twice post-infancy.

Recovering from his moment of paralyzing shock, and after hesitating for a second, Combeferre reached out and drew his friend into a tight embrace, and let him sob against his shoulder. It briefly occurred to him that he had become the Amis shoulder to cry on in the aftermath of the Barricade. Well, Courfeyrac had always worn his heart on his sleeve, and he'd always been there to support Enjolras and vice versa. He felt his own eyes stinging with tears as he thought of their lost friends, and though he did not cry as Enjolras did, tears streamed down his cheeks as he remembered the last meeting Les Amis de l'ABC had held up on the second floor of the Musain, the night before Lemarque's funeral. So full of life they'd all been, so ready for the sun to rise on the new day, so ready to raise the barricades. The air inside the café had been charged with excitement and high spirits. And now thirty seven out of the original forty three just in their Barricade alone were dead, as were all but a small handful of men from the other Barricades who had been captured and imprisoned.

The two young men remained like this for a short time, gaining comfort in each others' presence, but as expected, Enjolras's tears did not last long, and after a few minutes pulled away from Combeferre and roughly brushed his shirtsleeve across his face, wiping away his tears. Combeferre predicted what his next move would be, and clasped his shoulder before the taller man could hide back behind his impassive mask. Enjolras looked at him, his blue eyes appearing more intense than normal from his red rimmed eyes.

"René, please remember that you do not ever need to hide what you are feeling around us, least of all Courfeyrac and I. Especially now, not a one of us would even think of passing any sort of judgement or insult. You are our chief, our leader, but above all you are our friend, and my brother. You do not have to hide who you are around us." Combeferre said, dropping his hand back at his side.

Enjolras's mouth pulled up at one corner, not quite a smile, but full of melancholy.

" _Thank_ you, Julien. It seems you know me better than I know myself at times."

"Well, someone has to lookout for you when your focus outweighs your logic, my friend. Come on, it's getting late in the afternoon, and we must have all of our things together before we retire for the night. Monsieur Fauchelevent said he wishes for us all to depart for his home as soon after dawn as possible, before the streets are too terribly crowded."

OOO

It was still dark outside when Enjolras jolted awake in response to a hand shaking his shoulder.

" _Enjolras!_ Wake up!" Courfeyrac's voice hissed in the darkness, and Enjolras sat up, all traces of sleep quickly being replaced by tension as he peered at the shadowy form of his friend, unable to see his face.

"What is it, Antoine? What time is it?" Enjolras grumbled, throwing the blankets back and getting to his feet. He'd slept the majority of the night, the laudanum that Combeferre had suggested he drink the night before having kept the nightmares mostly at bay. Mostly, but had not eradicated them completely.

"It is just a little after half past four in the morning. Combeferre and Joly are already awake, Combeferre said to wake you. They are both downstairs in the dining room having a small bite to eat before Monsieur Fauchelevent arrives."

"He said he plans to arrive by six, correct?" Enjolras asked as he exchanged his nightshirt for trousers and shirtsleeves. He forwent a cravat, waistcoat, and shoes for the time being, and followed Courfeyrac down the stairs in stockinged feet. The two joined Combeferre – who, like him, had neglected to put on either a waistcoat or cravat – and Joly in the dining room. The room was draped in long shadows, being lit only by candlelight, despite freshly fueled oil lamps on the walls. A small platter of pastries sat on the cherry wood table, as well as a tray of steaming black tea.

"Good Morning, did you sleep well?" Joly greeted as Enjolras took a seat in the chair next to Combeferre.

"Well enough. As for you?" Enjolras inquired as he poured himself a cup of tea and dropped two lumps of sugar in it. He added a splash of cream and took a sip of the piping hot liquid.

"I slept well, and Prouvaire seemed to be as well when I awoke once during the night to check on him." Joly replied.

"Good. He needs his rest. Combeferre? Courfeyrac?"

"I slept alright. Enjolras, are you not going to eat anything?" Combeferre answered with a pointed look at the pastries. Courfeyrac simply nodded in reply, swiping one of the pastries as he took a seat across the table next to Joly.

"I am not hungry." Enjolras stated, for despite the hollow, cold feeling in his stomach, he truly did not have an appetite.

"Are you sure? You hardly ate anything at dinner last night, and you missed breakfast yesterday. Please eat something." Combeferre muttered lowly in concern, leaning over so that Enjolras could hear him. The latter leveled an irritated stare upon his friend, and held eye contact as he set his tea down and slowly reached for a pastry on the platter and brought it towards his mouth.

Courfeyrac had to fight to hold back a chortle of amusement at the loaded glare the chief was giving Combeferre, and a side glance at Joly told him the other man was having a similar struggle, though his was intermingled with concern.

Enjolras took a forceful bite of the pastry, ignoring the warm peach jam that flooded his tastebuds as he bit into the flaky crust. It may have been cotton in his mouth for all he noticed it, and it went down like a rock when he swallowed. He continued to stare at Combeferre for a moment more, silently letting him know just exactly how he felt about being mothered. Combeferre calmly returned his gaze indifferently, until Courfeyrac finally couldn't hold back his amusement any longer and let out a snort, quickly having to set his tea down to avoid spilling it.

Combeferre and Enjolras looked at him abruptly in surprise, as did Joly.

"Courfeyrac, whatever is so funny?" Combeferre sputtered.

"Nothing at all, I am sorry. Enjolras's face was amusing to me just now, I apologize Mon Ami. Combeferre, I do believe you may be the only person who can get away with ordering Enjolras about!" The younger man fought to control himself, though his eyes were bright with laughter.

"I wouldn't call that much of a laughing matter." Enjolras muttered as he stuffed the rest of the pastry in his mouth and swallowed quickly. Combeferre glanced at him and a sly grin slowly slid over his face.

"Ah, it is only because he knows I will only pester him until he listens." He chuckled, remembering the tearful request that Enjolras's mother had begged of him the day he'd left Marseille to join Enjolras in Paris for University, a request that he'd never made Enjolras aware of.

' _Julien, please, promise me. Look out for him please, keep him safe. You are his best friend. He needs you, though he will not admit it. His political views, they will get him in deep trouble if he is not careful. I fear he will not be able to hold his tongue if he is provoked. I fear for his safety, he is all alone in the city, and his health. He never lived on his own before he left here, and he's not written at all save for once to inform us that he had reached Paris. That was months ago. Please, Julien, just promise me you will write me to tell me how he is.'_

' _You have my word, Madame Enjolras. I will look out for him, I know how he is. I do not know how often I will be able to write you, but I will as often as I am able. I'd like for him to remain unaware of my correspondence with you, I fear he will feel as though I am spying on him for you if he finds out. You know he can be a tad paranoid. I think, for that reason, that it would be best if this be a rather one-sided correspondence." Then-nineteen, nearly twenty, year old Combeferre promised his friend's mother. He had been in his room at his parents' home, packing two large trunks for his journey to Paris, and had gone downstairs to the library to fetch several books he'd planned to bring along. A dainty knock had sounded at the front entrance as he started back up the stairs, and he'd opened the door to find Madame Enjolras on the front steps in a pale-colored day dress and fine jewelry. He'd invited her inside and immediately she'd requested a word with him, hence why they were currently both standing in the front parlor._

 _The older woman let out an audible sigh of relief, and though her ever-proper posture did not change, her shoulders slumped just slightly, and she clasped one of Combeferre's hands tightly._

" _You may very well be a saint, my dear boy. I thank you from the bottom of my heart."_

 _Combeferre bowed deeply in response to her words, and kissed her hand that she held his with, "I do not know about a saint, Madame, but you have always been kind to me. René is like a brother to me, our families have always been close."_

" _That may well be, but regardless, I am inexplicably thankful to you. Now, is your mother here? I was supposed to join her for tea this afternoon."_

" _Yes, Madame, I believe she is on the veranda out back. I'll escort you, if you like."_

He'd kept his promise to Enjolras's mother throughout the past five years, and sent a letter two or three times per year, at the same time he wrote his own family of the goings on in his life. In the two brief visits he'd made home to Marseille, he'd given updates to Madame Enjolras in person over tea with his mother. Only once as far as he knew had Enjolras written home, over a year ago, and according to the short letter he'd received from his own mother several weeks later, Enjolras's letter to his mother had been very brief, with little details.

"Yes, well, much as I appreciate your concern, Combeferre, you can be rather overbearing at times. I am a grown man, and surprising as it may seem, I do know how to take care of myself." Enjolras's voice brought Combeferre's attention back to the dining table. He looked at his friend and saw his mouth lifted in a half smile, with an ever familiar sarcastic glint in his eye accompanying a raised eyebrow.

"Knowing how is quite different from actually doing so, my friend!" Combeferre teased upon realizing joyfully that Enjolras's humorous side had been unlocked. He could not remember the last time his friend had relaxed enough to let his comical side show, and he wanted to cry in relief. He didn't expect it to be long before he would return to his serious, no-nonsense self, and he was right. Just a minute or two later, despite some light bantering back and forth between the four of them, and Combeferre watched the transformation as Enjolras assumed his stony exterior once more. He yearned for the days when they were children, before Enjolras had yet suffered as he had at the hand of his father. He had been so carefree and adventurous, which nine year old Combeferre had been nervously fascinated by as he practiced penmanship and buried his nose in books.

"It's getting light outside, we'd best be waking Prouvaire and moving our things down here near the door." Enjolras stated, rising from his chair. The others glanced out the window at the grey threads of light scoring the sky over the tops of the buildings and houses around the Gillenormand estate, and stood as well, following Enjolras out of the room and up the stairs. Joly and Combeferre moved the one trunk Marius had allowed them the use of; all of their things, not that they had anything save for three sets of clothing each, fit inside with room to spare. Courfeyrac accompanied Enjolras in waking Prouvaire and getting him ready to go.

"Jehan, it's time to wake up, Mon Ami. Prouvaire, we need you to get up now. How are you feeling?" Enjolras gently shook the red headed man's shoulder, and helped him sit up when he stirred awake.

"Jehan?" Enjolras inquired quietly.

"I'm awake. What time is it?" The other man mumbled.

"It's close to six in the morning. Are you up to travel today?"

"I can travel. How long of a journey is it?" Jehan assured quietly, wincing visibly as Enjolras helped him to his feet. Enjolras kept an arm wrapped around his friend's torso and helped him hobble across the room, where Courfeyrac had already pulled out a clean shirt and trousers to help dress him.

"No, he doesn't need to get dressed. It will cause too much discomfort, I believe. Is there a clean nightshirt there? We should be able to get away with that and a greatcoat, provided Combeferre didn't pack it in the trunk." Enjolras shook his head at the younger man.

"No, he left it here, thankfully. There is no fresh nightshirt though, he packed it already."

"That's fine, hand me the coat please."

The sun was just peeking over the tops of the buildings when they, including Marius and Monsieur Gillenormand, all heard the rattle of a fiacre's wheels on the cobblestones in front of the house. Mademoiselle Gillenormand had come downstairs as well, having returned from her visit to family. The woman opened the door for Monsieur Fauchelevent, who greeted her politely and stepped through the threshold.

"Good Morning, I trust you all slept well?" He greeted as he entered the front salon, hat in hand.

Enjolras stood and firmly shook the older man's hand, face impassive as always.

"Oui, Monsieur, and we are all ready to depart as soon as you are." He replied, gesturing to the trunk.

"Good, well, best not to waste any time then. Monsieur." M. Fauchelevent replied, nodding at Monsieur Gillenormand.

"You are sure this is no burden to you, Monsieur? You are aware of Monsieur Enjolras's…..em…..nightmares, are you not?" The elderly man inquired, sounding as if he was confused about the other man's generosity.

Combeferre caught Monsieur Fauchelevent's eye briefly, and inclined his chin ever so slightly, acknowledging the fact that Enjolras was indeed having nightmares. Monsieur Fauchelevent had figured as much from the dark circles present under Enjolras's bloodshot eyes.

"I am, and it is no trouble. I enjoy being of help." He replied amiably with a small smile.

"Ah. Well, I'll have my coach brought around for you young men. It has been a…pleasure…to have you here." Monsieur Gillenormand turned away from the little group.

"Monsieur Gillenormand." Combeferre stepped forward politely, feeling the need to thank the elderly man for his help.

"Yes, Lad?" The latter turned back to face them.

"I wish to thank you from the bottom of my heart, and on behalf of my friends as well, for your kindness and assistance to us all. Your assistance truly saved our lives, and we are indebted to you, Monsieur." Combeferre bowed deeply, his glasses sliding down to the end of his nose. He shoved them back up as he straightened and shook the older man's hand.

"You are very welcome Monsieur. I hope you all have a comfortable journey, short as it is." returned the gesture, and then exited the room without further comment.

"I'll come visit once I am able to get around easier on my own, if that is alright with you of course, Monsieur Fauchelevent?" Marius spoke up after a moment, throwing an irritated glance after his grandfather.

"Of course, my Boy. But please be easy on yourself, I'll continue to bring Cosette here until the doctor gives permission for you to travel, if you like."

"I would like that, thank you, Monsieur." Marius replied, a familiar fond expression settling on his face at the mention of Cosette.

Monsieur Fauchelevent touched the dark haired boy on the shoulder briefly, in a fatherly manner, and turned his head at the sound of carriage wheels and shod hooves on the cobblestones outside.

"Well, Messieurs, I believe that is our cue. Monsieur Prouvaire, if you'll take my arm please, I'll assist you."

"Non, Monsieur, Je peux gérer mes propres. [No, Monsieur, I can manage on my own.]" Prouvaire tried to decline. Enjolras looked on in well masked concern as Jehan clumsily stood and began hobbling toward the front entrance. He made significant progress, almost reaching the archway that opened into the grand Hall d'entrée. Several paces from it however, he accidentally put his weight on his bad leg out of habit, and they were all too far away to catch him as that leg crumpled like a fawn's and he went crashing to the ground with a cry of pain. Enjolras was at his side instantly, beckoning the others to stay back.

"Prouvaire, you are a fool, has anyone ever told you that? Are you okay, Mon Ami?" He murmured as he helped his friend sit up, and then back to his feet. He kept an arm around Prouvaire's shoulders, and the younger man leaned against him gratefully, keeping his injured leg off the floor.

"I do not recall if they have, Enjolras. I'm fine, I'll be fine." He spit through gritted teeth. Joly stood by fretting, and Enjolras nodded once for him to approach.

Joly quickly inspected Jehan's leg as much as he could without removing the bandage, and stood.

"There's no sign of bleeding. I'd like to check it more thoroughly however, once we arrive at your home, Monsieur Fauchelevent." The young doctor stated.

"Of course, Monsieur. Shall we get him into the coach?" The old man started towards the door, pausing beside Prouvaire and Enjolras, "Will you be requiring my help, Monsieur?"

"No, I've got him, Monsieur. Though I thank you." Enjolras replied. He, with Joly's help, quickly got Prouvaire situated inside the luxurious coach while Monsieur Fauchelevent took care of the trunk. Courfeyrac and Combeferre could only look on in shock as he single handedly lifted the hefty trunk and threw it on top of the coach's roof. They all carefully piled inside, mindful of Prouvaire, and Enjolras found himself squished between one window and Courfeyrac, while Combeferre settled for sitting on the floor of the carriage. Monsieur Fauchelevent shut the door behind him after a quick word with the driver, and the coach lurched as it began to move.

Monsieur Fauchelevent drew the curtain down over the right window, "Monsieur Enjolras, I'd advise closing that curtain as well, if you please."

Enjolras complied, though it was a tad uncomfortable to do so in the manner in which he was cramped against the window. The rumble of the wheels and slight rocking of the coach made it difficult for him to keep his eyes open, and a glance out of the corner of his eye saw Courfeyrac already nodding off, and directly opposite him Prouvaire was fast asleep. One advantage of his spot against the window was that it provided him with a small sliver of visibility out the window, at the corner of the drawn curtain. He wasn't much in the mood for conversation, and it seemed that Combeferre and Joly were not either, so he turned his attention to the small view he had of the Paris streets outside as they traveled away from the Marais. The city was just waking up amid the rosy grey hue of the rising sun, and he watched shopkeepers opening up their stores for the day, women and young men – some appearing to be students like themselves – buying warm croissants and loaves of bread from the various bakeries. Keen-eyed policemen were replacing their tired colleagues who'd been on overnight duty, and dozens of houses and tenements were having their windows thrown open to let in the fresh summer air. So preoccupied was he, that he didn't notice until the coach suddenly slowed to a halt, that they had reached the Pont Notre Dame bridge.

He looked away from the window and met Monsieur Fauchelevent's eyes.

"The police will not stop to inspect the coach? They were conducting searches when I was out on horseback." Enjolras stated sharply, his jaw clenched.

"No, Monsieur. I was observing that as well over the past day or so, and have noticed a trend among the types of vehicles the police are stopping to search. They tended to search vehicles such as fiacres, as those are for-hire, carts, and wagons. They steer clear of well-made private carriages for the most part, as this one is." M. Fauchelevent replied, unfazed by the younger man's sharp tone, due to the stress he could easily see in Enjolras's blue eyes.

Thankfully, as Monsieur Fauchelevent had predicted, the police posted at the bridge let them pass without a search, and they were soon on their way again, the heavy hooves of the two heavy-boned draft geldings that had been harnessed into the traces thudding almost imposingly on the pavement. Combeferre let out a shuddering sigh of relief at Enjolras's feet as they left the bridge behind, and Enjolras looked down at him as he addressed Monsieur Fauchelevent.

"How much longer, Monsieur?" He asked with a pointed glance at Prouvaire's still form.

"I'd say another forty minutes or so, depending upon the crowds. I must warn you now though, our route will take us through Saint Michel." M. Fauchelevent replied apologetically.

"Monsieur?" Enjolras's voice was low, but held a severe edge, his keen gaze catching the way Combeferre flinched slightly at the mention of the location of the Amis favorite meeting place.

"It is the quickest way, and we are not passing near the Musain nor even the Place du Pont-Saint-Michel. Also, the curtains are drawn, and the horses are traveling at a fair trot. We will pass through it quickly."

"Very well." Enjolras spared another discreet glance down at Combeferre, then across to where Joly held Prouvaire's head in his lap – the red haired man seemed to be in that halfway stage between waking and resting, rather than fully asleep – before drawing the curtain over his window even tighter closed, taking away his view of the streets, and remained in stony silence for the rest of the journey.

The coach finally began to slow, and Enjolras felt it make a turn and travel several hundred more feet before coming to a halt. Monsieur Fauchelevent cautiously looked out the window, and then carefully opened the door.

"Messieurs, we've arrived." He hesitantly touched Courfeyrac on the shoulder, who in turn awoke from his doze with a start as Joly woke up Prouvaire. Combeferre stiffly clambered out of the coach after Monsieur Fauchelevent, and Enjolras waited for the other three to exit before stepping down himself. He peered around, slightly shocked that such a clearly wealthy man would choose to live on such a dank, isolated street. As the old man gestured to them as he unlocked a weathered metal gate, he spoke up.

"One more warning," He began, with a bit of a smile. Nevertheless all five young men snapped to attention at the word 'warning'.

"I must warn you," M. Fauchelevent continued, observant of their reaction, "that my daughter, well she's rather excited for you all's arrival, and may be a bit talkative. She'll likely already be awake, if she slept at all last night."

"I'd like to get Prouvaire into a bed, if that is alright, Monsieur Fauchelevent, but I'm sure the rest of us could sit and converse for a little while if she'd like. We shall avoid any topic of – well, of the – " Courfeyrac replied as the little group entered a small courtyard that could best be described as a forest of bright, sweet-smelling flora. He and Combeferre had retrieved the trunk of their clothes, and held it between them.

"Of course, Monsieur Courfeyrac." Their host replied hurriedly, saving the younger man from having to complete his sentence when he began to stammer over mention of the barricade as he paused in front of a faded wooden door and opened it carefully, the hinges squeaking mildly in protest. They all filed inside in muted silence. This house was darker than the expansive mansion of Monsieur Gillenormand, but it was clear that this was a home rather than merely a display of wealth.

Enjolras had scarcely enough time to take in his surroundings, before a tiny blonde figure came flying out of what was clearly a small salon. Cosette was most definitely awake, and appeared to have slept not a wink the night before in her excitement. He was more than a little startled at her sudden appearance, though he kept his composure.

"Good Morning, Messieurs! I hope there was no trouble in getting here, Toussaint - she's our housekeeper – is brewing some tea for you all, and we've gotten all of the beds and the two sofas in the parlor made up with bed linens for you all, and –" The girl chattered brightly.

"Cosette, they've only just arrived, Mon cher, how about we let the young Messieurs get settled into their rooms and then perhaps if they feel up to it we can all sit down for some tea in the salon?" Her father held up a hand to stop her, and his tone was gentle. In those few moments alone, Cosette had spoken more words than Enjolras had previously ever heard from her.

"That would be nice, Monsieur and Mademoiselle. Monsieur, would you mind showing us to the rooms we shall be staying in, so that we may get Prouvaire into a bed and unpack our clothing?" Joly inquired politely.

"Of course, right this way Messieurs." The older gentleman beckoned for them to follow him down a short hallway, and up a narrow flight of stairs.

"My apologies for the heavy air, these rooms have not been used since we've lived here, feel free to open a window during the day to air it out. We've cleaned all the rooms of the dust, and the bed linens are all new. I'll leave you all to get situated, and the washroom is downstairs adjacent to the kitchen."

"Thank you, Monsieur Fauchelevent, for this. I have not thanked you until now, which was unkind of me. You have done more for us than we can thank you for." Enjolras awkwardly thanked the man, still uncomfortable with the change of surroundings, and bowed.

"You are very welcome, Monsieur. Please, I wish you all to know that you are safe here, and that you will not be turned out, you are all welcome here until you wish to leave." The old man smiled, and left the room.

It was quickly decided that Joly and Prouvaire would take the small room across the hall, with its twin beds, while Enjolras and Combeferre received the room they had all filed into upon coming upstairs. Courfeyrac, despite Enjolras's protests that he should take the makeshift bed on the sofa down the stairs, claimed the worn but comfortable sofa. He did quickly place his few outfits into the bottom drawer of the dresser before exiting the room. Combeferre batted his hand away when he offered to help unpack their combined things from the trunk, and so he settled for sitting on the bed closest to the door to take in his surroundings.


	7. Chapter 7

**Finally managed to finish this chapter! Super sorry for the delay, I've been tied up with a new job, and my dog and horse both going through strict training schedules! Hopefully you all enjoy this chapter, we have a new villain introduced towards the end of it! Please R &R, I'd love to hear what you all think of this story so far!**

* * *

' _Little people know, when little people fight,'_

 _He was back on the barricade, how or why he could not say. All he knew was that a gut-wrenching feeling of impending danger spread coldly throughout his body as Gavroche trilled one of his little songs. He couldn't see him, he could only hear him, sounding as if he was underneath their fortress. Where was he?! A quick glance at Courfeyrac showed that the child was not with his adoptive brother as he'd been just a few minutes ago._

' _We may look easy pickings.'_

 _His eyes were wild as he looked about, trying to locate him, for it was clear that Courfeyrac had not yet noticed his absence. A flash of filthy blond hair caught his eye. There! Though as he caught sight of the little boy, horror crept into his bones, for it was not on the inside of the barricade that he was moving about. No, that happy little gamin was out in front of the barricade, having crawled out from a tiny gap at the bottom. Combeferre watched in unadulterated terror as he yanked a cartridge-box free from the uniform of the corpse of a National Guardsman who lay entangled at the base of the barricade._

' _Gavroche!' Combeferre hissed urgently, leaning out over the top of the barricade as far as he dared._

' _But we've got some bite!' Gavroche paid him no heed as he merrily continued his little dance in the street, set on retrieving the full cartridge-boxes from the fallen men._

' _Gavroche, Come here!' Combeferre kept his head low as he stretched an arm out, beckoning insistently to him, trying to keep Courfeyrac from figuring out where Gavroche had gotten off to. Still the ruffian ignored him._

' _So never kick a dog, because he's just a pup!' He cried indignantly, taunting the National Guard at the opposite end of the street. An instant later, a shot rang out, as if punctuating the end of his verse. Gavroche flinched as it struck the wooden coffin next to him. Combeferre caught sight of the soldiers snickering as one of them reloaded his rifle. Gavroche himself finally turned round, gazing up at Combeferre gleefully._

" _Gavroche!" Combeferre whispered sharply, gesturing for him to return to safety, fear for the child making his stomach roll with nausea. But the gamin only turned back to face the soldiers haughtily, or as haughtily as a nine year old boy could be. His plight had now been noticed by the rest of the barricade, and a number of them at the top stared trembling at his dancing form in the street with abated breath._

' _We'll fight like twenty armies! And we won't give up!' His song-like voice was louder this time, and caught the attention of Courfeyrac, who had just noticed the boy's absence. The dark haired man clambered up to the top of the barricade alongside Combeferre, and the older man flung out his other arm against his chest to stop him._

' _Gavroche!' A panicked cry erupted forth from Courfeyrac's lips, and he surged forward._

' _No! No Courf!' Combeferre's voice was just as panicked as he lunged after his friend, attempting to restrain him._

' _Gavroche! Gavroche, what are you doing?!' Courfeyrac was mad with terror, and Combeferre all but tackled him as he strained to crest the barricade, just as Bahorel noticed the struggle and threw his weight against the shorter man._

' _SOMEONE PULL HIM BACK!' Combeferre yelled, his voice ragged. Another gunshot rang out, and Gavroche's gasp of pain reached his ears amid their cries of distress as they tried to hold the dark haired man, and the sound only caused Courfeyrac to struggle harder. Combeferre fell back under Courfeyrac's desperate flailing, and he seized him from behind in a headlock._

' _YOU DIRTY BASTARD!' the younger man cried in terror-fueled anger, and Gavroche's voice scored the air once more, though this time, it was clear in his voice that he'd most definitely been hit. Joly then threw himself at their younger friend, as did Feuilly as they all tried to restrain him._

' _So you better….run for cover!'_

' _HOLD HIM!' Combeferre cried as Courfeyrac wrenched free of the four men and leapt to the ground and raced for the entrance to the street. Enjolras himself tore after the man, seizing him by the arm just as he rounded the corner, desperate. In his adrenaline-fueled rush the shorter man surged forward, and Enjolras's boots skidded across the pavement as he tried to hold him._

' _When the pup…..' Even still, Gavroche continued to reach for the cartridge boxes. Courfeyrac wrenched the upper half of his torso around the pillar, and Enjolras held on to the hem of his friend's waistcoat, but his grip was slipping as Courfeyrac continued to fight, and he cried out for someone to help him._

' _Grows – '_

 _But then a third menacing shot rang out, and Combeferre froze as he reached the struggling pair, catching a glimpse of the little gamin at the exact moment the bullet struck him, right in the chest. The child's head whipped to the side, and Combeferre could only watch, frozen in speechless horror as he staggered back a single step from the force of the impact, and then collapsed backwards, his little arms splaying out as he hit the ground._

 _A feral scream burst from Courfeyrac, and he broke free from Enjolras's grip, leaping into the street and reaching Gavroche's still form in an instant. Marius appeared next to Enjolras, rifle loaded, cocked, and aimed as the blond man held on to the corner of the pillar as if it was the only thing keeping him from going out after their friend. Combeferre, still frozen in place just behind Enjolras, caught a glimpse of his friend's face as he turned a horrified, murderous expression on the National Guard, and Combeferre almost wanted to pity the uniformed men in that moment. Indeed he saw several soldiers swallow nervously and avert their eyes under the weight of Enjolras's fearsome glare. Even the Army Captain appeared highly disturbed by the actions of his men, his jaw slack beneath his moustache and his eyes wide. Courfeyrac dropped a trembling hand on the child's stomach and slid his other hand behind his head, his entire body trembling from shock and horror. He managed to scoop up the child into protective arms, and as he cradled his small form against his chest he stumbled back towards where Enjolras and Marius beckoned to him urgently. He made it past them and back into the illusion of safety that was their barricade, and fell heavily to his knees in front of Combeferre, sobbing violently as he desperately tried to make the little boy open his eyes and charm them all with his tinkling laugh as he so often had. But as Combeferre knelt carefully beside his dear friend, he knew what he'd known as soon as he witnessed the shot hit the gamin. Gavroche was dead, had been killed instantly. Monsieur Fauchelevent crouched alongside them, his hands half extended as if he wanted to help but didn't know how._

 _Courfeyrac held Gavroche's body close to him and slowly rocked back and forth as he sobbed brokenly. A dark red stain was slowly spreading across the front of the child's tattered waistcoat, and when Combeferre gently pulled him into a tight embrace as Monsieur Fauchelevent sorrowfully, reverently lifted the still form away from Courfeyrac, he nearly gagged in horror at the blood on his friend's hands and smudged on the front of his waistcoat. Courfeyrac sagged against Combeferre, and he continued to hold the grief-stricken man tight, meeting Enjolras's agonized face over Courfeyrac's mess of dark curls. The Army Captain's voice broke through the smoke…._

And Combeferre woke up with a tearful gasp that quickly turned into a sob of horror that he muffled with his hand as he sat up in bed. The horrible scene of Gavroche's demise continued to flit behind his eyelids like a moving painting, even in wakefulness. His chest heaved, and he slowly managed to get his breathing under control, and he looked over at the sleeping form of Enjolras on the other bed, worried that he'd woken him. Under normal circumstances, he would have awoken the instant Combeferre had sat up, however the latter had all but forced him to take a full dose of laudanum when they'd retired for the night, after a particularly bad nightmare the night before had caused the poor man to fall out of bed. But under the influence of the drug such as he was, the blond man slept on soundly.

They'd been at Monsieur Fauchelevent's home for three days, and the little group felt more at ease than they had since before the barricade. Not even in the comfort and grandeur of the Gillenormand estate had they felt truly safe. But Monsieur Fauchelevent had been with them at the barricade, had risked his life for a boy he'd never met, and – according to Courfeyrac – had defied the Law right to its face to save said boy. The bright presence of Cosette also served to keep the Amis in a somewhat cheerful mood despite their heavy hearts, which Combeferre knew would not go away anytime soon. And the housekeeper, an older woman named Toussaint, mothered all of the young men as if they were her own sons, and it seemed to please her immensely that they could all understand her perfectly when she spoke, despite the severe stutter that marred her speech.

A soft tread in the doorway and the door being nudged softly open drew Combeferre's attention, and he looked up to see Courfeyrac standing hesitantly in the doorway, running a hand through wild curls mussed by sleep.

"Combeferre? Is everything alright?" He whispered, his eyes shining bright in the darkness. It was a full moon, and Combeferre could see his outline quite clearly, though the rest of his features were fuzzy, owing to his glasses resting on the small nightstand rather than on his face. The younger man looked towards Enjolras's bed, ensuring that he was still asleep.

"He won't wake up anytime soon; I gave him laudanum earlier. Everything is fine." Combeferre replied softly, the memory of Courfeyrac cradling Gavroche on the filthy cobblestones made fresh in his mind from his dream, and he found he could scarcely look him in the eye.

"I heard you wake with a start?" Courfeyrac asked, approaching the bed slowly and sitting on the edge of the mattress.

"Just a nightmare, it's nothing. What are you doing awake?" Combeferre sighed in resignation.

"I went to the kitchen for a drink of water, sleep has proved to not come easy to me this night. Would you be open to discussing it?" Courfeyrac replied, clasping Combeferre's hand in concern.

"I do not think you should hear it, Antoine. It was disturbing enough for me."

"Was it about…..Gavroche?" The boy's name fell painfully from the younger man's lips, and his expression twisted. Combeferre swallowed audibly before replying.

"…Yes."

"Well, would you like to talk about it anyway? I can handle it."

"Antoine….."

"He's gone, Julien. He's gone and no amount of my grieving will bring him back. I can only take solace in the fact that he didn't suffer." Courfeyrac's voice was soft, but Combeferre could hear plainly the broken grief that would continue to plague his friend for years to come whenever the subject of Gavroche was brought up.

"No, he didn't suffer. Of that I am certain." Combeferre paused, and took a deep breath before continuing in a hushed tone, "I was back at the barricade. Just after Enjolras returned from his reconnaissance."

"You mean….?"

"Yes. Marius and – and Feuilly, they were discussing the issue of powder with Enjolras, how the rain had ruined our supply. I imagine that is what prompted Gav to go out in the street. I relived the entire thing, Antoine." Combeferre stuttered over Feuilly's name, and he felt tears stinging behind his eyes as a mental image of the cheerful fan painter took shape in his mind. Feuilly, who was arguably the living embodiment of everything they had been fighting for. Orphaned as a young child, forced to raise himself and live on the streets, a gamin. He'd worked every job he could find, and with no money to attend school or further his education, he'd taught himself to read and write, and studied politics of other countries in what spare time he could find. Except, he was no longer a _living_ embodiment, and Combeferre's heart twisted painfully in response to that thought.

"The entire battle, or Gavroche?" Courfeyrac's voice dragged him back to the present.

"Just Gavroche. It was all my fault. I couldn't convince him to come back. I didn't try hard enough."

"No. No, Julien no, it was in no way your fault. I want to blame myself, for not keeping a closer eye on him. It was exactly the sort of thing he would do, and I should have known he would be listening in on Enjolras. He might've listened to me if I'd only kept an eye on him."

"That boy never listened to anyone when his heart was set on something, and you know that. Not even Enjolras could have persuaded him to return. The National Guard is solely at fault for what happened, neither of us are responsible." Combeferre replied, remembering with a pang how he'd restrained Courfeyrac from going out after the child.

"I was ready to hit you, you know. When you wouldn't let me go out after him." Courfeyrac stated shamefully.

"I hated doing that to you with every fiber of my being. But you would have been killed instantly if we'd let you go, you know that. You would have been a much bigger target than Gavroche. The entire Guard would have readied their guns had you put yourself out there, only one or two were shooting at Gav."

"In hindsight, I am glad – in a way – that you held me back. I was not thinking with my head."

"How could you have? You loved him like a brother."

"He _was_ my brother, Julien. Much like you and Enjolras. You and I know things about Enjolras that our other friends could never hope to know, though you know more than I. That is how it was with Gavroche and I. He loved all of us, but there were things he trusted me with that he would never have told anyone else. I know exactly where all of his little hideaways are throughout the city, I am fluent in argot-talk, all because of him. Sometimes, not often, he would – " Courfeyrac stopped speaking abruptly and stared hard over at Enjolras. The older man had stirred in his sleep, and mumbled something unintelligible into his pillow. The two waited several minutes, and when Enjolras stirred no more, Courfeyrac spoke under his breath.

"Since it doesn't appear that either of us is going to be able to get much more sleep tonight, would you like to continue this conversation down in the salon?"

"Of course, hand me my dressing gown will you please?" Combeferre whispered back, fumbling for his spectacles and perching them on his nose. He donned the dressing gown over his nightshirt and carefully eased out of the room after Courfeyrac, mindful of any loosened floorboards that might creak and wake Enjolras. The laudanum may be potent enough to give him a restful slumber, but it wouldn't keep him from waking up in response to a loud enough noise. Joly was by nature a deep sleeper, and Prouvaire, like Enjolras, was sleeping off the effects of laudanum. The two young men crept down the narrow staircase, with a cautious glance down the hall on the main floor towards Monsieur Fauchelevent and Cosette's rooms.

"Now, what were you saying, Courf?" Combeferre prompted gently as they made themselves comfortable on the sofa and one of the two armchairs, respectively.

Courfeyrac took a deep breath as he recollected his thoughts, "Sometimes, though not often, Gavroche would come to my apartment. If it was very cold outside, or if it was raining for a long time, he would often show up. Marius always kept an eye out for him after he moved in as well, and I kept a pallet on the floor in my room for him to sleep on. I had an extra key made for him, in case he ever needed to get in the apartment when Marius and I were out. There….there were some times when he looked dead on his feet when he showed up, but he was always smiling, he always had a joke ready. Marius and I teased him that he had to tell one joke for every piece of food we gave him, and I think he took it seriously. We laughed while he ate. Once – one time I woke up in the middle of the night during a thunderstorm during one of his visits, and he had crawled up into my bed and fallen asleep next to me, holding on to my arm. He was so brave and witty, so street smart, but under it all he was just a child."

Combeferre leaned forward and clasped one of Antoine's hands in both of his at the tears that made his voice tremble as he finished speaking.

"We all loved him, Antoine, dearly. There will never be anyone else who makes good out of the lot they're given and remain happy and cheerful like he did. Gavroche…..Patria is all of France, but he is Paris. He will always live on in our hearts and in these streets. And I know he's up above us somewhere teasing us for our tears. 'Stop your blubbering! I thought my friends were men, not rain clouds!' He'd say." Combeferre met Courfeyrac's tear-filled chocolate eyes with his own blue-green ones, and he gave a melancholy smile. Courfeyrac chuckled quietly despite the tears that finally fell from his eyes down his face.

The two continued to talk for several more minutes, tears falling silently from both their eyes, until they both finally felt fresh tendrils of fatigue clouding their brains. Courfeyrac, luckily for him, was already sitting on his makeshift bed, and he quickly fell asleep once more. Combeferre watched him sleep for a few moments, debating whether or not to return to his own bed and risk waking Enjolras, or worse, Monsieur Fauchelevent or Cosette, in the process. He sighed tiredly, removed his glasses and folded the frames on the collar of his nightshirt, and settled back into the plush armchair, sleep quickly overtaking him. Mercifully, this time, it was a sleep free of nightmares and memories.

OOO

It was still early when Enjolras awoke, not yet eight o'clock. He noted in slight surprise that Combeferre was not in his bed on the other side of the room, and dressed quickly. He ran a hand over his scalp as he made his way down the stairs. His hair didn't have quite the chopped appearance that it had in the days following Marius's aunt cutting it, though it was still very short. Voices from the small dining room drew his attention, and he greeted Monsieur Fauchelevent, Combeferre, a sleepy looking Courfeyrac, and Cosette with a nod as he entered and took a seat at the table.

"Good morning." He stated plainly as he gratefully took a piece of Pain au Chocolat off the platter that Combeferre offered him. Toussaint bustled out of the adjacent kitchen, and placed a fresh pot of coffee on the table for them, disappearing back through the swinging door with the empty coffee pot.

"Good morning, Monsieur. Did you sleep well?" Monsieur Fauchelevent replied kindly.

"Well enough, thank you. Are Joly and Prouvaire still asleep?" Enjolras inquired.

"Prouvaire is, though I'd expect him to wake anytime now. I heard Joly moving about upstairs, but he has not come down yet. I do hope you do not mind that he rearranged the position of his bed, Monsieur Fauchelevent." Courfeyrac answered, his voice thick with sleep. It was clear that he had only woken up a few minutes before Enjolras, or likely while the latter was dressing. It nearly always took the younger man nearly a quarter of an hour to wake up completely. Combeferre set his cup of coffee down, and looked at Courfeyrac's sleep-mussed tangle of curls and his bleary chocolate eyes.

"Courf, pour yourself some coffee please. It'll help you wake up." The older man gestured at the pot of steaming dark liquid on the table, and gave Enjolras a tight smile, "Good morning."

"To you as well….is something the matter?" Enjolras inquired as he carefully bit into the chocolate-y bread, a quizzical light in his blue eyes.

"I didn't sleep very well last night, and neither did Courfeyrac. We talked for a time, I ended up spending the rest of the night in the armchair in the parlor. I didn't want to wake anyone going back up the stairs." Combeferre briefly met his friend's disturbingly blue eyes, and then trained his gazed studiously on the coffee mug, staring deep into the dark liquid.

"You could have woken me, you know I would not have minded." Enjolras replied matter of factly. He had closed himself off once more upon their arriving at Monsieur Fauchelevent's home, and Combeferre suspected it was just the change of environment, causing his friend to be on edge and anxious. He glanced up at Enjolras from his coffee and silently implored him with his eyes, promising him without words that he would speak with him about his nightmare later. Enjolras opened his mouth to reply, but before he made a sound, the sound of footsteps on the stairs drew everyone's attention, and a minute later Joly entered the room, stifling a yawn.

"Good morning. My apologies for not coming down earlier; I had to tend to Prouvaire. I did not miss anything important did I?" The brown haired man greeted a tad awkwardly, uncomfortable at all the eyes focused on him. He carefully took a seat at the table next to Enjolras, and poured himself a cup of coffee, adding a lump of sugar to it and stirring it gently before taking a sip. He made a face and added more sugar to it, nodding in satisfaction after taking another sip.

"Good morning to you as well. You did not miss anything at all, Enjolras came down just a few minutes before you did. How is Jehan feeling this morning?" Combeferre greeted, passing him the platter of rapidly diminishing Pain au Chocolat.

"He is still in pain, and he will be for at least another week due to the manner of treatment we were forced to use. Cauterizations are argued to cause more damage to tissue than the original injury, which, they do, as one is quite literally burning the skin, but it is the quickest and most effective way to stop an infection and stop bleeding." Joly explained.

"How long will he remain on bed rest, Monsieur? He was already on his feet somewhat before his leg had to be cauterized." Monsieur Fauchelevent asked curiously, his brown eyes lit with concern for the poet. Enjolras felt a rush of gratitude towards the old man, for despite him not quite trusting him yet, he had proved his kindness and generosity to them tenfold, and somehow Enjolras believed his promise that they were truly welcome in his home.

"In all honesty, he can be out of bed for limited amounts of time now. He shall have to remain seated for most of the time though, and if I may return briefly to my apartment, I'd like to retrieve a cane or two of mine for him to use, as well as my own bag of medical supplies. He will have to be mindful of putting weight on that leg for at least the next two months, as muscle takes a significant amount of time to heal, but supervised excursions downstairs and out of bed will be good for him." Joly replied, finishing off a piece of the Chocolate bread.

Monsieur Fauchelevent pursed his lips in thought, slow in his reply. Enjolras and Courfeyrac watched him curiously, waiting for his answer.

"I believe something can be arranged. I believe you three also need to settle rent with your landlords and retrieve a few personal effects?" He finally said.

"Mine and Enjolras's rent is due in three days, we both live in the same tenement. We also both have several items of importance I'd like to retrieve, that I'd rather not risk falling into the hands of any police." Combeferre answered quickly. Enjolras paused with his coffee cup lifted to his lips, sudden anxiety coursing through his veins.

In their rush to prepare for Lemarque's funeral, Enjolras had left several pages of notes and plans out on his desk in his room. Plans that outlined how he'd predicted the Uprising to unfold. Notes on The Social Contract and Common Sense. Pamphlets from rallies. Plans, written in code, from meetings he'd held with other republican leaders throughout the city. Notes from the Amis own secret meetings. Papers, written in his own hand, that, should they fall into the wrong hands, would alone be all the evidence the police needed to arrest, charge, and punish him for High Treason. He was already looking over his shoulder and stealing furtive glances out the window. He was well-known among his peers at the University, and his face was not unfamiliar to the Police from the various rallies and speeches. It was only by the Grace of God that the few officers he'd come across over the last two weeks had not recognized him with his short hair. He _had_ to retrieve those papers, it was without question. He realized with a start that Combeferre, as well as the Fauchelevents and Courfeyrac and Joly had paused in their conversation, and were staring at him in concern, having noticed his near mental implosion.

"Monsieur? Is something the matter?" Cosette spoke up for the first time that morning, and her kind, quiet voice immediately served to calm Enjolras somewhat. But not enough, and he briefly met her worried gaze with wild eyes. He hated himself in that very moment, hated appearing so weak in front of his friends and their hosts. How could be seen as a leader when he was all but falling apart at the breakfast table? Someone's hand clasping his tightly drew his attention, and he looked over into Joly's eyes.

"Enjolras, what is it Mon Ami? You can tell us." The medical student murmured, squeezing Enjolras's hand reassuringly.

"Papers. My notes." Enjolras said breathlessly.

"What papers, René?" Courfeyrac asked nervously, appearing to be on the same train of thought as the chief.

"Republican papers. Notes about the Revolution and the Uprisings. Coded letters to and from the leaders of other republican groups. Maps of the city that were marked with the sites of where each Barricade was to be constructed and which groups would take charge of each. In short, highly incriminating documents that will put a steep bounty on Enjolras's head if they should fall into the wrong hands. It would be all the evidence the police, the National Guard, even Louis-Philippe himself, would need to charge him and punish him for high treason against the state. Monsieur Fauchelevent, we have to get those papers. Before anyone else has the chance to. It is imperative to Enjolras's, as well as ours, safety that we retrieve those papers as quickly as possible." Combeferre stated, his eyes as large as saucers behind his spectacles as he stared pleadingly at Monsieur Fauchelevent. The older man appeared alarmed, though he hid it well. He was silent for several long minutes.

"Papa?" Cosette spoke up when her father still did not speak. The Amis watched him intently.

"Remind me where you live again, Messieurs? I'll call a fiacre. But I cannot take all of you, that would be too suspicious. It's still fairly early, if we leave as soon as possible…." The old man said finally.

"Combeferre, Joly, and myself all live in the University Plaza, Combeferre and I both live in the tenement of Madame Bertrand on the Rue Toullier. Joly lives just around the corner on the Rue Cujas. Courfeyrac lives at the Rue de la Verrerie, closer to the café Corinthe. Marius lived with him up until the Uprising." Enjolras replied quickly, forcing down the creeping feeling of panic trying to claw its way up into his mind.

"Monsieur, if I may? I suggest you take Enjolras and Combeferre today to their tenement, let them settle rent with Madame Bertrand and collect their belongings. The University is not too terribly far from here; and their landlady is not the suspicious type." Joly spoke up, finishing his coffee and setting the cup down in front of him.

"Joly is correct, Monsieur. Our landlady, Madame Bertrand, is not the most vigilant of porters. She cares very little about the comings and goings of her tenants, so long as the rent is paid on time." Combeferre agreed with his friend.

"But what about your medical supplies, Monsieur Joly? Surely they are just as important as Monsieur Enjolras's papers?" Cosette inquired curiously, her delicate eyebrows knit together in concern.

"Combeferre, if I give you my key, will you go to my apartment and retrieve my bag and a cane for Prouvaire? My landlady knows you. Just tell her I had an urgent family matter to attend to, if she inquires about my extended absence." Joly looked at the other man.

"I will. Monsieur Fauchelevent, are you sure about this? Surely there are still police patrolling the University Plaza and surrounding areas? Even before the Uprising they had men stationed there regularly." Combeferre nodded.

"I am. The majority of the police are vigilant, but they are not that vigilant. A passing glance is the most I would expect from them. All the same, best to err on the side of caution." Monsieur Fauchelevent answered, with an odd – almost recollective – expression on his face, hinting at ghosts from his past. An expression that did not go unnoticed by any of the young men at the table.

The cab's wheels rumbled beneath them as they grew nearer to the _Université_. Monsieur Fauchelevent looked across at them, and spoke with a calm voice.

"If anyone asks, though hopefully they will not, you both had urgent family matters to attend to that required you to leave without notice. Enjolras, I am your uncle on your mother's side who returned with you to assist in vacating your apartment."

"I beg your pardon, Monsieur, but shall I instead say simply that my father wished to discuss a business matter with me in person? Wouldn't it seem a bit suspicious if Enjolras and I, both hailing from Marseille, suddenly both had urgent family matters arise?" Combeferre debated politely as the fiacre turned down the Rue Toullier and came to a halt outside a simple but sturdily built tenement building. Number 28.

"Of course. Now go, I shall wait here with the cab unless you need me."

Enjolras and Combeferre both nodded, and exited the fiacre. They were both dressed in the fine clothes that Monsieur Gillenormand had bought them, appearing every part the young Bourgeois gentlemen they had been raised to be. They'd both managed to somehow save their keys to their rooms despite the madness and chaos of the barricade, and Enjolras easily let them into the dim building. A stout, middle aged woman sat at a desk crammed into the corner, and she looked up at their entry, her weathered face appearing surprised at their appearance.

"Bonjour, Madame Bertrand. Comment ça va? [Good Morning, Madame Bertrand. How are you doing?]" Enjolras greeted the woman, giving a slight bow and removing the hat Monsieur Fauchelevent had all but ordered him to wear.

"Je caus bien, Monsieur. Mais où avez-vous été? Et vous, Monsieur Combeferre. Je ne vous n'ai pas vu pendant des semaines! [I am well, Sir. But where have you been? And you, Monsieur Combeferre. I have not seen you for weeks!]" Madame Bertrand exclaimed, more than a bit sternly.

"Mes excuses les plus sincères, Madame. [My sincerest apologies, Madame.] I had an urgent family matter to attend to that required my immediate departure. It was very sudden." Enjolras hoped his fabricated story sounded believable, and it must have, for she simply nodded and turned to Combeferre. Both young men towered over her, but it did not make her any less intimidating of a landlady.

"Et vous, Monsieur? [And you, Sir?]"

"I am deeply sorry, Madame. My father suddenly decided that he needed to discuss a matter of my inheritance, in person. He asked that I travel back home to meet with him, as it concerned me taking over his shipping company when the time comes. I meant to inform you as to my impending absence, but it clearly slipped my mind in my preparations for the journey." Combeferre said, loathing himself for the lie.

"I see. Well, you have returned now. I was beginning to worry that you two had abandoned your rooms."

"Well, Madame, that is actually what we have returned to discuss with you. My family is requiring my immediate return to Marseille, as soon as I finish my schooling. I have come to settle my rent with you and gather my belongings. I will be staying with another friend in the city until I complete my final exam." Enjolras hated lying, and he was convinced she could see right through his hastily made up excuse.

"I have also come to settle rent with you, Madame, I've found other accommodations in the city, with a female friend, if you understand my meaning. You have been so kind to us both over the past few years, and I thank you for your tolerance of the odd hours we both kept as a result of our studying." Combeferre explained, channeling his inner Courfeyrac at the bit about a lady friend, giving a minute, wicked little grin. The older woman tsked at him in annoyance.

"All the same, the lot of you. Go ahead and retrieve your things, and settle this past month's payment before you leave."

"We shall do exactly that, Madame. Thank you again." Enjolras gave a hasty bow and retreated up the narrow staircase to the third floor, with Combeferre close on his heels.

"Of all the excuses you could possibly have thought of, you pick one involving a fictional mistress." He muttered dryly, in mild amusement at his friend.

"Well, you can't say she didn't believe it. Besides, it's less fictional with me than it is with you, mon Ami. At least I've actually looked at a woman before." Combeferre chuckled under his breath, both of them mindful of the other tenants in the building as they made their way down the hallway to their rooms, stopping outside Enjolras's door midway down the hall.

"Oh you've done far more than merely _look_ at a woman, Julien." Enjolras scoffed lightheartedly – despite their predicament – as he drew the brass key from his pocket and jammed it into the lock.

"You jest! You make me sound like Courfeyrac! You forget that I've never actually bedded a lady before. Pursued, yes. Bedded, no. Nor is that my intention. Not yet at least." Combeferre grinned mildly at his friend's clear discomfort with the subject, "I'll be in my room if you need anything."

"Alright." Enjolras replied as Combeferre strode to the end of the hall and easily let himself into his own room. Enjolras opened his own door and stepped through the threshold to his apartment. It was a single room, sparse in furnishings, but well organized and suited for his needs. The papers on his desk, mercifully, were right where he'd left them, and he all but lunged across the room to his desk in the corner. He rifled through them, and released a shuddering breath of relief when they were all there. He pulled his steamer trunk out from under his bed and unlatched the lid.

He threw open his wardrobe and quickly packed his jackets and waistcoats in the trunk, along with his shirts and trousers, and cravats, from the drawers underneath, throwing his underthings on top. Even with all of his clothes packed, the trunk was scarcely half-full. Granted, it was a large trunk, but when he'd fled – that was really the only word for it – his parents' home, he'd packed only the essentials in terms of clothing, and placed more importance in his volumes of books and journals. He hadn't been able to save all of his books, and he had no doubt that his father had had the remainder of his personal library burned upon his departure. He placed the stack of papers and the two rolled up maps gently on top of the rest of his belongings and closed his trunk, flipping the latches closed with a snap of finality.

He hefted the trunk with a quiet grunt, and winced at the extra weight on the ankle he'd sprained. It had healed quickly, despite his going against the doctor's orders to keep off of it, though it did give him a slight twinge of discomfort every now and then. He'd broken down and asked Combeferre about it, and his friend had reassured him that any pain in his ankle would go away over the next few weeks.

Enjolras carried the trunk from the now bare room, not stopping to look back at what had been his home for the past six years. He pulled the door closed for the last time with his foot, and set his trunk down at the top of the stairs before pacing back down the end of the hall to Combeferre's room.

In his haste, however, he didn't notice one piece of paper, covered in his handwriting, a coded letter, flutter out of the trunk and slide under the bed as he'd closed the lid.

"Do you need any help?" He leaned against the open doorway to Combeferre's room. His friend started at his voice and turned around, shutting and latching the last of his two trunks.

"If you could only help me carry these down the stairs, that would be most helpful. Thank you." Combeferre lifted the one that was clearly full of books and other study materials with a grunt, and Enjolras stepped forward to relieve him of the load.

"Let me take that one, Mon Ami. You were so insistent on bringing along nearly every tome in your library."

"Are you calling me weak, René? You're not that much stronger than I!" Combeferre chuckled.

"I was doing nothing of the sort! I was merely being polite" Enjolras allowed himself a small grin as he moved aside for his friend to pass. He entered the now-bare room – which had previously been much more furnished than his had been – and easily picked up the trunk of clothes, following Combeferre down the stairs and loading both trunks on the top of the impatiently waiting fiacre. The driver scowled when Enjolras ducked back inside to retrieve his own singular trunk, but Combeferre reached in his pocket and flipped a ten franc piece up to him, and the man brightened instantly as he caught the shiny coin. Combeferre helped Enjolras lift the final trunk up on top of the cab, and they both returned inside to settle their rent.

"Thankfully you both are current on all payments, which is a sight more than I can say for some of my other tenants. I think the only true complaint I could possibly make against either of you are the late hours you kept." Madame Bertrand muttered as she perused their lease agreements.

"Many of our peers at the University also were forced to keep late hours, in order to complete all of our studying and assignments on time, Madame." Enjolras replied stoically, posture straight and hands clasped behind his back.

"I did not mean any harm by my statement, Monsieur. Forgive me. Any damages to either room that you know of?"

"Non, Madame. We also left our furniture and bed linens for use by future tenants. We have not the room to take them with us, and we will have beds where we are going. Consider them a gift, or a donation, of sorts, if you like." Combeferre spoke up, his eyes brightening at the way the older woman's face lifted at his words.

"You both are too kind. I shan't have any idea of how to possibly repay you."

"Like I said, Madame, they are a gift. You need not worry about repayment. You have been so kind to us over the years, and provided more assistance than was necessary when we both first came to Paris."

"Thank you from the bottom of my heart, Messieurs. Your parents raised good young men."

"You are most welcome, Madame Bertrand." Enjolras offered a half smile at the woman, "I do hate to be a bother, but we are on a bit of a schedule."

"Of course, Monsieur, my apologies. Your payment will be for forty francs, and the same for you, Monsieur Combeferre, as well as ten francs for insurance should I find any damages."

"Of course, Madame." Enjolras and Combeferre both counted out fifty francs from the money they'd retrieved from their rooms and each handed the woman a twenty franc banknote and three ten franc pieces.

"Merci, Messieurs. I wish you both the best."

"And the same to you, Madame." Both young men have a slight bow, and then turned and left the tenement of Madame Bertrand for the final time. Monsieur Fauchelevent was standing outside the fiacre, and he opened the door for them.

"Enjolras, you go ahead. Joly requested that I make a brief detour to his apartment to retrieve his medical bag and a cane for Prouvaire." Combeferre gestured towards the end of the street where it intersected with the Rue Cujas.

Enjolras turned and stared at his friend, as did Monsieur Fauchelevent.

"I'll be fine. It's only a five minute walk, if even that. He gave me his key, and his landlady knows my face." Combeferre reasoned, though still giving a slightly uneasy glance around them. The University Plaza wasn't terribly crowded like certain parts of the rest of the city, and many of their classmates lived in the tenements in the immediate vicinity of the University, just as they, up until now, had.

"Combeferre, I really do not think – " Enjolras muttered sternly. He peered over his friend's shoulder, catching sight of a policeman standing firm at the end of the street. He averted his gaze quickly when the uniformed man turned his gaze in their direction.

"Enj – René, think a moment. Joly needs his medical supplies. How suspicious do you think it will appear if Monsieur Fauchelevent is required to keep calling a doctor to his home to care for Prouvaire?" Combeferre shot back in hushed tones. Monsieur Fauchelevent appeared ready to intervene, but held his tongue on the basis that Enjolras was listening to the Guide of the Amis. The stony expression – of which M. Fauchelevent had become more than accustomed to over the past weeks – he wore betrayed his misgivings, but he was definitely hearing his friend's words.

"Go, then. You're sure you'll be okay?" Enjolras finally said with a nervous scowl.

"I am. I will not be long." Combeferre promised, and quickly set off down the street after pushing his glasses up his nose. Enjolras watched as he placed the top hat back over his short brown hair, before sighing in annoyance and stepping up into the fiacre, taking a seat across from Monsieur Fauchelevent.

"If has has not returned in twenty minutes, I'll go fetch him, Monsieur." The old man spoke after a moment, his brown eyes observant.

"René."

"Pardon, Monsieur?" M. Fauchelevent asked..

"My name is René. Or Enjolras, if you'd prefer. You do not have to address me as Monsieur." Enjolras's voice was flat, but his tone was kind.

"Very well, Enjolras." Monsieur Fauchelevent was quiet again for a few minutes, "I admire you a great deal, you know."

Enjolras started violently in surprise, "Admire me? Whatever for, Monsieur? I have done nothing admirable in my life. There are plenty of men other than I who are far more worthy of your praise."

"I admire you for many reasons. One, for fighting so hard for what you believe in, despite the opinions of society and your family. Most men in your position would have instead abandoned their ideas rather than lose their status. Two, for the strength you have shown over these past weeks, including what little I witnessed at the Barricade. Your close bond with your friends and comrades is something that I can only imagine what it's like." The old man met his eyes with a kind expression that morphed into a more wistful one as he finished. Enjolras gazed at him carefully, picking up on the meaning behind his words. He was quiet in his reply.

"Who are you? If you do not mind my asking."

Monsieur Fauchelevent appeared alarmed for several moments, and Enjolras could see his mind calculating behind his brown eyes.

"I'm merely a concerned citizen who opposes oppression." Enjolras could tell the old man knew that he didn't believe the lie as soon as the words were spoken.

"Non, Monsieur, who are you really?" Enjolras pressed gently, sensing that whatever Monsieur Fauchelevent's story was, it was a very painful topic for the older man.

The grey haired man appeared almost agonized for a split second, but then leaned forward with a deep breath and rested his elbows on his knees. It was several minutes before he raised his eyes from the floor, and met Enjolras's careful gaze.

"It was just over thirty six years now that it happened. Long before you were born. I was a young man, not much older than you are now. I – "

The door to the fiacre flew open, startling both men inside, and Combeferre stepped up inside with a gentle smile as Monsieur Fauchelevent abruptly stopped talking.

"I'm glad I remembered where Joly always stowed his bag, otherwise I fear I would not have found it amidst the clutter he left behind! I also brought along two canes, one for Prouvaire as Joly asked, and one for him." Combeferre stated, setting the aforementioned items on the floor at his feet as the fiacre driver called to his horses and the cab moved off with a lurch.

"Nothing seemed out of place?" Enjolras turned to his friend, getting the sense that Monsieur Fauchelevent was not going to speak any further of his past at that present moment.

"No, Joly's landlady was concerned that he hasn't been there for several weeks, but I told her that he was merely away on travels and that I obtained permission to borrow a few of his things." Combeferre replied.

"Good." Enjolras replied, with a sideways glance at Monsieur Fauchelevent, who had turned his face to the window and was watching the city pass them by as they made their way back to the Rue Plumet. Combeferre fell silent, and all three were quiet for the remainder of the brief journey.

 _18 Juin 1832 My Dear Mère et Père,_

 _I've no doubt that by now you both have received news of the events of the fifth and sixth of Juin. I am writing to assure you both that I was not affected by the conflict and that I am safe. I have moved my residence to a quieter part of the city as a result of the fighting, due to many of the rebels being University students as I am. René has moved in with me; how I convinced him to do so is beyond me, as he wanted to remain close to the University for sake of his classes. He has almost finished his final year, and as soon as he partakes in the Bar exam, he will become a licensed lawyer and will be free to practice law, or even open his own office if he so chooses. It will be well when he is finished, as the air here in Paris has put him in bad humors I am afraid. It has happened several times the past few years, but never so severe as this episode. I have had a bit of trouble as well, but I believe that my accompanying Père on his trips to the city as a child better equipped my lungs for the urban air._

 _Unfortunately enough, he has been mostly bedridden these last four weeks, and has been unable to attend classes for three weeks. He refuses to see a doctor, but is allowing a friend of ours, a fellow student, who studies medicine, to check on him periodically. His cough is most frightful to listen to. I can only pray that his professors will not force him to retake his sixth year in its entirety as a result of his missed classes. I am attempting to convince him to write his parents, but I have made no progress as of yet._

 _I hope to return home for a visit as soon as my final exams for the year are complete, it has been too long since I have seen both of you._

 _Père, I must ask how the family company is faring? And Mère, how are the rest of our friends and everything else at home? I eagerly await your reply._

 _Ever your loving son,_

 _Julien_

Combeferre set his pen down, and read over his letter carefully by the flickering candle on the table. They'd all supped together earlier that evening, after returning to the little house on the Rue Plumet and stowing their belongings upstairs. Joly had appeared ready to burst with gratitude when Combeferre handed him the second cane he'd snagged from his friend's apartment, and Courfeyrac had rushed to aid Enjolras and Combeferre in carrying the trunks up the narrow staircase when they'd walked through the wooden doors in the early afternoon.

Monsieur Fauchelevent had deliberated at dinner when Julien had raised the question of writing his parents in Marseille, and finally deemed it safe enough. Provided, of course, that he did not mention any of the events at the barricade, political leanings, or even any of their friends who'd fought alongside them. By not giving any indication that he knew any details of what had transpired two and a half weeks ago, the less likelihood that suspicions would be raised, on the possibility of his letter being intercepted during postage. It was not commonly done anymore, according to Monsieur Fauchelevent, but he'd warned that incoming and outgoing mail to and from Paris was undoubtedly being closely monitored by police at present, owing to several noted insurgents still being "at-large."

A step in the doorway to the kitchen drew his ear, and he glanced up to see the aging housekeeper, Mademoiselle Toussaint enter the room.

"Mademoiselle, I did not wake you, did I? I apologize if I did." Combeferre greeted sheepishly; the rest of the house had retired some time ago, leaving him alone to his penmanship.

"N-n-no, Monsieur. I do not re-r-re-ressst until the rest of-f-f-f th-the house is asleep." The kindly woman struggled to say. Monsieur Fauchelevent had spoken to them all upon their arrival at his home of Toussaint's stutter, but this was the first time Combeferre had really heard it. He scrambled to his feet, the legs of his chair scraping against the wooden floor.

"You do not need to stay up for my sake, Mademoiselle. I am quite capable of fetching tea myself." He said with a calm smile, gesturing to the tea pot the woman held in her hands. This in turn prompted some mild fretting from her, and Combeferre rose quickly from his chair, and gently took the teapot and cup from her.

"Though I do thank you greatly, Mademoiselle. A hot drink will help me get to sleep."

"You are m-m-m-most welcome, M-Monsieur." Toussaint curtsied quickly and left the room. Julian busied himself with folding his letter in an envelope, and sealing it with an unembellished wax seal. Monsieur Fauchelevent had told him that he did not employ the use of a seal, which seemed odd to him, but he'd thought nothing further of it. Now he realized the genius of a plain wax seal as he blew out the candle on the table, and quietly made his way upstairs, stepping over a squeaky step on the wooden staircase, after poking his head into the parlor to spot Courfeyrac sprawled fitfully on the sofa, worry lines evident on his face despite the poor light. When he reached his shared room upstairs, after silently shedding his day clothes for a nightshirt, his gaze swept over Enjolras's sleeping form, how his friend twitched restlessly in his slumber. As he turned towards his own bed, however, his gaze caught on a half folded sheet of paper on the night table next to his friend's bed. It was just as well that he'd not yet removed his glasses, or else he would not have seen it, but after another glance at Enjolras, he leaned over and silently swiped the paper off the table. Despite his conscience telling him that the letter wasn't his to read, he held it up to the watery moonlight seeping through the window and read quickly, for it did indeed turn out to be a letter. A _forged_ letter, to be exact, addressed to the University headmaster. It was dated June 7, but the ink on the blotting board on the night table was still damp to the touch, leaving a cool sensation on Combeferre's fingertips. He shoved his glasses further up his nose and squinted to read the plain, no-nonsense handwriting. It appeared nothing like Enjolras's elegant, swooping penmanship, but it was eerily similar to the hand of another Enjolras family member. Enjolras's father, Marie-Joseph Enjolras. He scanned the brief missive as best he could in the poor light, trying to make out the bluntly written words.

 _To whomever this matter may directly concern,_

 _It has been brought to my attention that my son, René Étienne Alexandre Enjolras, who is in his sixth year as a stellar student of Law Studies, has become unable to attend his classes due to health concerns brought about by the urban air quality. He has become bedridden, and physically unfit to attend his classes in a timely manner. I am aware that, as a student in his sixth year, my son is soon scheduled to partake in the Bar Exam for his legal studies. I am also aware that a student who is absent from classes more than one time is removed from the roster._

 _However, I must request that you lend your ear to the fact of the matter, which is that my son never missed a single class session during his six years of study until he was rendered abed by his body's inability to cope with the poor air in Paris any longer. He has attained near perfect marks in all of his classes since his first year, as well as model behavior. Therefore it would only be reasonable to request that, despite his recent poor health, he remain approved to take the Bar Exam on the twenty-fifth of June. It would be in the University's, as well as my son's, not to mention my household, best interests to allow my son to take the Bar Exam, rather than be required to have wasted an entire year of study should he be forced to retake his sixth year studies._

 _Respectfully,_

 _Marie-Joseph Étienne Charles Enjolras_

Combeferre pressed his lips together into a thin line as he carefully returned the letter to the night table, and leveled a long look upon the sleeping form of his dear friend before sighing and climbing into his bed in resignation.

OOO

Prouvaire woke groggily to someone moving about nearby. That was the first thing he noticed. The second was the dull ache running the length of his lower leg. He opened his eyes and squinted through the darkness as he winced and reached down to gingerly touch the thick bandage that was still wrapped around his left leg. Joly was asleep in the bed opposite him, though only his feet were visible, as he'd turned the bed frame around to face north to south promptly upon their arrival at the Rue Plumet. He sat up stiffly, suppressing a grunt of pain as his leg was jostled. He heard a quiet step on the stairs outside the bedroom door, and immediately felt a sense of foreboding. He clumsily eased out of bed, in nothing but his loose-fitting cotton nightshirt, and used the footboard on his bed, then the wall and finally the doorframe, to make his way out into the narrow hallway. Enjolras and Combeferre's door was edged open, and he peered in to see both men asleep in their beds. A shuffled step down the stairs drew his ear, and he swallowed hesitantly as he surveyed the narrow flight of wooden stairs. There was a railing, but one needed two legs to make use of stairs, and he let out a gasp of pain when he accidentally put weight on his injured leg as he slowly, haltingly descended, clutching the wooden railing with white knuckles all the while. He reached the main floor out of breath and nauseated, and quickly sank to the floor awkwardly, stretching his left leg out in front of him as he tried to catch his breath. It didn't help that he'd not been on his feet unassisted since the night of Joly's arrival at Monsieur Gillenormand's, and that he'd been bedridden for the past three – now four, if the dim brightening outside the curtained windows were anything to go by – days. The same step he'd heard as he'd left his room sounded again, louder this time, and right next to him.

"Monsieur Prouvaire? Whatever are you doing on your feet, Lad?" The grey-haired figure of Monsieur Fauchelevent appeared in the doorway to the parlor, an astounded expression on his weathered face, and Jehan's anxiety quickly faded.

"I fancied a quick jaunt around the neighborhood, Monsieur, but it seems my legs were not agreeable to the proposition." Jehan replied with a shadow of his trademark grin, still trying to catch his breath.

Monsieur Fauchelevent chuckled a bit, the skin around his kind brown eyes crinkling in quiet amusement. "Well it may not be as exciting an excursion, but would you be amenable to me assisting you to the parlor?"

"That would be most appreciated, Monsieur, thank you." Prouvaire grimaced a bit as the older man carefully helped him awkwardly to his feet. Or rather, his foot. He was soon situated in a worn yet comfortable armchair, and he noted with amusement Courfeyrac's sleeping form on the sofa. The younger man's mouth hung open, and his wild chocolate curls were mussed over one eye, and one side of his face was squashed flat against his pillow. Normally, Courfeyrac slept quite deeply, so deeply in fact, that even Bossuet bursting into his apartment unannounced and with a raucous shout of greeting often failed to wake him. Prouvaire squeezed his eyes shut for a moment with a deep pang in his heart at the thought of his so recently departed friend. Bossuet had been one of his dearest friends, unlikely though it seemed. He never thought he would miss those unending jibes at his poetry and interest in theatre that somehow, now, had ended. He opened his eyes and gave a quiet smile at Monsieur Fauchelevent in response to the old man's concerned expression.

"I'll go see about some tea from Toussaint." He said after a moment, and left Prouvaire to the quiet of the parlor. He gazed around the room that, although isolated seeming, exuded a welcome air. The small fireplace was dark, and a cool draft swirled down the chimney and into the room from the pre-dawn morning air outside. A quiet grumble caused him to turn his eyes back to Courfeyrac just in time to see the younger man roll over, off the sofa and hit the floor with a hard thud and an accompanying yelp of surprise.

Jehan doubled over laughing as his friend sat up with a string of curses, and Courfeyrac turned a surprised expression towards him as he massaged his shoulder. His surprise quickly turned to mirth when he saw him laughing.

"Well well well, if it isn't the resident invalid, finally come out of hiding. Was it you or that leg of yours that decided enough was enough?" The dark haired man greeted sarcastically with a wide grin.

"Well my leg has argued quite a bit on the matter, I must say." Jehan replied drily.

Monsieur Fauchelevent entered then with a tray of coffee rather than the tea he'd originally suggested.

"I heard a crash, is everything alright?" He asked in surprise at seeing Courfeyrac awake and sitting on the floor.

"Everything is quite alright, Monsieur, I simply had a rude awakening, is all." Courfeyrac looked up at their host.

"I do believe this may be the first time you've woken before the sun, mom Ami. Even Enjolras is still asleep." Jehan remarked, as he gratefully took a cup of coffee that Monsieur Fauchelevent offered him.

"No use crying over spilt milk, as my mother would say. Though I do mourn the loss of a good sleep." Courfeyrac stood, and quickly folded his blanket and placed it on top of his borrowed pillow to make room for both him and Monsieur Fauchelevent to sit on the sofa.

"Speaking of, Monsieur, you were awake before I, yet the sun is only just now beginning to rise?" Prouvaire inquired curiously, closing his eyes briefly against a throb of soreness along his leg.

"I'm a habitual early riser, I'm afraid. My past…profession, required it, and I have never been able to shake the habit." Monsieur Fauchelevent replied, hesitating noticeably. Courfeyrac appeared puzzled for a moment, and spoke up.

"What was your profession, Monsieur?" Jehan inquired, trying to ignore the bolts of pain shooting through his leg. Courfeyrac was staring at their host with an air of suspicion, and Jehan shot him a look.

Nevertheless, Monsieur Fauchelevent appeared….frightened, by the question, and his eyes darted between the two – former? – students before he gave his answer.

"I worked in the shipyards at Toulon." He said, clearly unwilling to say any more.

"Taxing work, that." Courfeyrac remarked kindly, shedding his suspicious air as if it had never cloaked his body like a cape, and Monsieur Fauchelevent relaxed a bit. Courfeyrac, seeming to have had enough of conversing in shadow, stood then, and strode over to the window and threw open the heavy curtains, flooding the room with the pinkish grey light of the early morning.

"Thank you again for the coffee, Monsieur. It has definitely helped to put a gentler turn on a rather unpleasant awakening." He said upon returning to the sofa.

"You are most welcome, Lad, though I fear I cannot take credit for preparing it. Toussaint always manages to have a pot of coffee ready when I wake in the mornings. She's been with us for a number of years, and knows my habits."

"I must say, having housekeepers to attend to everything is one thing I miss on occasion from living with my parents. Though I appreciate the opportunity to have learned how to live on my own, without help. Wouldn't you agree, Jehan?"

"I do, though I never interacted much with our home staff growing up. Neither did my parents for that matter. They have their personal staff of course, but I think my parents do not view it fitting to converse with the working class. Something they failed to instill in me, thankfully."

"Both have their benefits, I suppose. I agree with you, Courfeyrac, everyone should learn how to take care of themselves, though I must also bring up the fact that without upper class, wealthy families needing household staff to take care of them, many if not all of those valets, cooks and ladies' maids, and housekeepers, would be without a job and likely out on the street. It is where Toussaint would be if I had not hired her." Monsieur Fauchelevent stated thoughtfully, sipping his coffee.

"Forgive me, Monsieur, but is she…..feeble minded, for lack of a better term?" Courfeyrac inquired.

Monsieur Fauchelevent sighed deeply, "Not to the extent that it would seem. She is a bit slow in completing tasks and she gets confused and agitated easily. Her speech impediment gets worse when she is stressed or upset. She has been fired from jobs in the past for her handicaps, but she has proved to be a great help to Cosette and myself. She is not stupid, she's very intelligent, but simply learns differently than most people."

Courfeyrac nodded in understanding, finishing off his coffee.

"Well, I'd best go dress for the day, I'm hoping to receive a reply from my parents within the next few days from the missive I sent them." He stated, standing and stretching his arms above his head. Once his steps had receded up the old stairs, Jehan set his coffee down on the tray, trying his best to ignore the throb of soreness that pumped through his leg as he leaned back, and looked at Monsieur Fauchelevent.

"Monsieur –" He began, but was cut off by the not-so-quiet sound of someone descending the steps, followed by a more sedate pair of feet. A few moments later, Joly entered the room, his forehead scored with worry lines. Enjolras followed him, his eagle's eyes sharp, and his face impassive. His stone-like expression cracked slightly in surprise, and apparent relief at spotting Jehan sitting somewhat comfortably in the armchair near the hearth.

"Prouvaire! You are not supposed to be on your feet, my friend! How did you even make it down the stairs?" Joly exclaimed, rushing to the red head's side. Enjolras sighed in exasperation and seized Joly by the shoulder.

"The doctor said he could be on his feet for short periods of time as long as he had assistance, and that there was no problem with him spending time seated in a chair rather than bedridden, Joly. He's fine." Their chief's quiet voice reverberated with a mix of irritation and satisfaction. Jehan chuckled, but sobered quickly upon finding himself staring into Enjolras's intense blue eyes.

"How are you feeling, mon Ami? How is the pain?" His leader asked gently, his tone laced with the barest hint of worry.

Jehan pressed his hand in reassurance, briefly, and replied honestly, not seeing the point in hiding anything from his friend, "The pain is there, but it's manageable. I am feeling much better than I was, thank you."

Enjolras nodded in reply, deftly removing his hand from Jehan's grip, and offered a small smile as he stood. Jehan noticed that, despite the early hour, for it was not yet seven o' clock, he was fully dressed. Shoes, waistcoat, jacket, and a neatly knotted cravat.

"Where are you going?" Courfeyrac's voice was blunt as he reentered the room, dressed in trousers and shirtsleeves, a brown waistcoat buttoned over his shirt.

"I am going to deliver a letter." Enjolras replied calmly.

"A letter to whom?"

"A letter addressed to the University headmaster. I hope to convince him to allow me to partake in my Exams, despite my recent poor attendance."

Everyone in the room, including Monsieur Fauchelevent, was speechless. The old man was the first to recover his voice.

"Monsieur, is this really the best idea?" He asked in concern.

"It is necessary. I plan to leave Paris for a time, once I have my degree. I cannot stay here for another year to retake my final year of studies. It is both pointless and risky to do so." Enjolras stated plainly.

"Lad, it's not yet been three weeks since the Uprising. I really don't think it wise – "

"Monsieur, I beg your pardon for interrupting, but all the police have at their disposal is a vague description of me. They do not even know my name." Enjolras cut in, and Prouvaire knew then that his mind was made up. Monsieur Fauchelevent seemed to sense this as well, and gazed at the brave young man standing before him.

"If you'd like me to accompany you, I'd be more than willing to do so." The older man offered, but Enjolras shook his head resolutely.

"Non, Monsieur. C'est quelque chose que Je dois faire à luis seul, mais je vous remercie. [No, Sir. This is something I must do alone, though I thank you.]" He replied evenly.

"Very well. You are not being forced to remain here, of course. What time should we expect you back?"

"Noon, if not earlier."

"Toussaint will have a small mid-day meal prepared by then. Will you be needing any money?"

Enjolras waved him off, "No, thank you, Monsieur. I have money." And turning to Courfeyrac, "And I would prefer it, if Combeferre does not follow me. He worries too much."

"I'll try my best." Courfeyrac promised.

"Good. Is there anything you need while I am out, Courfeyrac? Joly, Jehan?"

"If you could simply stop by my apartment and make sure my parents have not mistakenly sent any letters there?" Courfeyrac fished in his pocket and withdrew a small brass key, which he tossed to Enjolras.

"I'll do that. If you will all excuse me." Enjolras pocketed the key, nodded to the men all gathered in the room, and departed, the sound of the front door closing echoing through the house. Courfeyrac spoke up first.

"He will be fine, Monsieur." The dark haired man promised, though his voice held a slight tremor, as if he didn't fully believe his own words.

"If something happens, I've no doubt he will find a way to contact us in the event he is unable to return here." Monsieur Fauchelevent replied. A quiet step in the doorway caused him to look up, and Jehan followed his gaze to see the old man's daughter, Cosette, enter the room. This was the first time he'd truly laid eyes on her, and she looked like a little elf clad in her dressing gown and nightdress, with her dark blonde hair woven into a loose braid.

"Cosette, you're up early. Did we wake you?" Monsieur Fauchelevent greeted, his lined face splitting open into a warm grin.

"No, not at all Papa. Did someone leave just now? I heard the door close." She replied, and Jehan had to strain to hear her soft voice.

"Monsieur Enjolras had an errand he needed to see to. He will be back close to noon." Her father answered.

"I hope he will be back in time for the noon meal; Toussaint told me she's planning to make Quiche." Cosette glanced around the room, smiling in greeting at both Courfeyrac and Joly, before her doe-like blue eyes landed on Jehan.

"How are you feeling, Monsieur? I don't believe we've spoken until now, I'm glad to see you on the mend."

Prouvaire could not help but smile at her, "I am feeling much better, thank you for asking, Mademoiselle. Though you can call me Prouvaire, or Jehan if it suits you. I don't believe I quite qualify as Monsieur yet!"

"Prouvaire then. My apologies."

"No need to apologize, Mademoiselle." Jehan replied kindly.

"Cosette, why don't you go dress, and see about helping Toussaint with breakfast. I am sure she would appreciate an extra pair of hands." Monsieur Fauchelevent spoke up then, clearly uncomfortable with the fact that his daughter – who oddly enough didn't hold any resemblance to him – in a room full of young men in nothing but her night clothes and a dressing gown. Cosette glanced around, and flushed scarlet as she realized her mistake.

"Of course, Papa." She curtsied slightly and made a quick exit, and Jehan heard her bedroom door close gently down the hall, before he turned his attention back to Monsieur Fauchelevent.

OOO

Enjolras strode purposefully up the marble steps of the University, clutching his fabricated letter in his hand. The pink sunrise had given way to an overcast sky, and he could feel the dampness in the air from the impending rain. He pulled open one of the heavy wooden doors, and stepped into the familiar entryway of the University. It had been quite some time since he'd visited the headmaster's office, but he turned right and continued down the hall towards the library, records office, and the headmaster's office, the opposite direction from his classes. He passed a few of his classmates as he walked, and he nodded politely to them, noting their expressions of surprise at seeing him. Just before he reached the ornate door of the Records Office, immediately beyond which stood the Headmaster's office, he paused to collect himself, and he swallowed nervously. He had to act ill, and he wasn't an actor. But he couldn't afford to miss his final exam, not so close to the end of his final year. That exam was his ticket out of Paris. Staying another year to retake his sixth year was only asking for trouble; he wasn't stupid enough to believe that he wouldn't be recognized sooner or later. He straightened his shoulders and prayed that he could convince the Headmaster, and knocked on the door, waiting until an imposing voice called through the door.

"Come in!"

Enjolras opened the door and entered, closing the door behind him and bowing deeply before the robed man.

"How may I help you, Monsieur?" Headmaster Moreau stood from his desk and beckoned him inside.

"Headmaster Moreau, thank you for seeing me. My name is René Enjolras, and I am a law student here, in my sixth and final year of studies. I am here this morning to deliver a letter from my father, as well as to discuss with you the possibility of me being allowed to partake in my Final Exam, despite some recent poor attendance due to poor health." Enjolras began, standing straight and confidently meeting the older man's steady gaze, though confident was the last thing he felt in that moment.

"Do sit down, Monsieur Enjolras, before you faint in my office. You certainly do not look well, Lad. Have you seen a doctor?" M. Moreau gestured to the chair in front of his vast desk, which Enjolras gratefully took a seat in.

"Thank you, Monsieur. I have been mostly bedridden these past weeks, and unable to visit the hospital, though an acquaintance of mine who is a medical student has offered his assistance.

The air here in Paris has put me in bad humors, I am afraid." Enjolras tugged the edge of his cravat away from his neck to breathe a bit easier in the stuffy, warm room. His skin was clammy, and in his nervousness, he found it easier to play the part of an ill man.

"That is poor fortune indeed – you said you are in your sixth year, Monsieur?" The headmaster stood and pulled a thick tome from the bookshelf behind him, setting it down on the desk with a muted thud, stirring up dust. This would quite possibly be the only time in Enjolras's life that he found himself grateful for the dust that swirled into his face and immediately caused him to double over in a brief fit of coughing.

"Good gracious, Lad! Are you quite alright?" The headmaster exclaimed in dismay.

Enjolras placed a hand over his breastbone, and sat up, his eyes teary from coughing. "My apologies, Monsieur. Yes, I am in my sixth year."

The headmaster nodded as he flipped through the book, finding a page and pursing his lips as he read over it. Enjolras spotted his full name printed along the top of the page, and waited as the middle aged man studied his transcripts.

"It says here that you have maintained perfect attendance all six years, as well as perfect or near perfect marks in all of your classes. A model student, one of your previous professors noted. However, your Societal Class and Law professor for this year, Professor Allard, has noted here that there were several incidents of insubordination? Would you care to elaborate on that?"

Enjolras frowned ever so slightly in annoyance at the professor who had forbidden him from speaking in class that semester before answering.

"Yes, Monsieur. Earlier in the semester, I entered into a debate with Professor Allard during a lecture, for what he was teaching did not line up or agree with facts I had read in books of the same subject, which was a review of human rights if I recall correctly. I am afraid I became a bit too passionate in my argument and as a result, Professor Allard forbade me from engaging in any further class discussions. It was wrong of me to argue, though I do not believe I was in the wrong in that instance."

"I see. You mentioned you had a letter for me?"

"Yes, Monsieur. My father sent me a letter and requested that I have it delivered here." Enjolras handed him the sealed envelope. He waited as the headmaster broke open the wax seal, which he'd embellished with his family's seal, and read the carefully printed words on the paper.

Finally the stern faced man set the letter down with a sigh and looked across at Enjolras thoughtfully.

"You do realize that the University does not typically allow this sort of anomaly."

"I realize this, Monsieur, but I beg you to take into account the fact that prior to this month, I maintained perfect marks in all of my classes, I was never tardy nor absent, and most of my professors had good things to say about me as a student." Enjolras tried to hide the desperate note in his voice, and the headmaster held up a hand.

"Monsieur, I said that the University does not usually do this. However, on the grounds of this being your final year, and your stellar reputation as a student of this University, I am inclined to make an exception this one time."

"Headmaster Moreau, thank you. My family and I are in your debt." Enjolras rose from his chair and bowed, before reaching across to give the older man a firm handshake. His hand was still clammy, so he quickly withdrew his hand and wiped it over the leg of his trousers.

"You are welcome. Now go, before I change my mind. See a doctor, also." The headmaster's face was kind, but his voice was stern, and he opened the door and showed Enjolras out with a swish of his black robes. Enjolras stopped on the way out.

"Monsieur, the test examiner will be notified, correct?"

"Yes, Monsieur. I will see to it that your name is on the call sheet for the exam. Do not be late."

"Merci, Headmaster Moreau." Enjolras nodded in affirmation, and watched as the heavy door closed in his face. He quickly aimed his course for the grand foyer of the Learning Institution, and weaved his way through the growing throng of students as various classes let out for the noon hour. He spotted a few familiar faces, and ducked through one of the front doors, trying to avoid any of his peers noticing his presence. Not quick enough, and he flinched when a hand seized his arm firmly.

"Enjolras?"

Enjolras whipped around, his heart hammering in his chest, and found the owner of the voice, a classmate of his from his Economics class.

"Where have you been? Professor Marchal was quite put out when you stopped attending class."

"Florent. I – Forgive me, you startled me a bit. I've been ill these past weeks, unable to attend classes. I just finished a meeting with Headmaster Moreau to explain my absence, I was on my way home." Enjolras greeted the other student with a tight smile.

"Ill? How so? It wasn't cholera was it?" Florent inquired.

"No, no. It's the air here, put me in bad humors. I've been seen by a doctor."

"You disappeared right before that revolt, I was worried that perhaps you'd been involved. There was talk that a number of students were involved. Though I suppose that's obvious due to the number of suddenly empty seats in the classrooms." Florent gazed at him, and Enjolras swallowed hard, thankful for the cravat tied over his throat.

"No, I could hear it from my apartment though. It was quite loud. Sleep certainly did not come easy that night, my coughing aside." He replied.

"I'm surprised anyone in Paris could sleep at all from the gun shots. They quelled it though, thank goodness. A strong government cannot remain strong if it's own people keep rising up against it."

"I could not agree more. Please accept my apologies, Florent, but I must be getting home. I disobeyed bed rest orders from the doctor, and I am beginning to feel quite fatigued." Enjolras nodded as he shook the other student's hand.

"Shall I call a fiacre for you? You don't look well." Florent inquired, but Enjolras waved him off.

"No, thank you. I really must be going." Enjolras offered a tight smile, and turned away, moving quickly down the marble steps and into the street, leaving his classmate staring after him with a suspicious glare.

He easily found his way to Courfeyrac's apartment around the corner from the University, and let himself up into his friend's rooms.

There was a small pile of letters that had been slid under the door, and Enjolras picked them up, noting the sender's address. All three were from his parents, and Enjolras felt a brief pang in his heart as his own mother's face flitted through his mind. And then his father's face, and he immediately felt a bitter taste in his mouth in response.

He tucked the letters in the pocket of his waistcoat and buttoned his jacket over it, passing a glance around the apartment before his gaze landed on Courfeyrac's bed, opposite the window, close to the door that led to the room Marius stayed in. He marched over to the bed and lifted up the mattress. He snatched a thick bundle of papers, and a thin journal from underneath it. His frustration grew as he leafed through the papers and realized that they were notes. Notes from classes mostly, but more important were the several pages of notes from their meetings at the Musain and the Corinthe. He folded them and placed them in his pocket with the letters, and took one more cursory look around the apartment before retreating out of the room and back down into the street.

He decided to risk flagging down a fiacre, and handed the driver a ten franc piece.

"Where to, Monsieur?"

"Rue Plumet, if you please, Monsieur."

"I am going to need more than ten francs for that distance." The driver complained.

Enjolras hated doing it, the man didn't appear to be any higher than middle class, but he straightened his shoulders, and glared at the the man with a haughty eye, the very picture of a privileged young bourgeois gentleman.

"The Rue Plumet, _if you please._ " Enjolras flipped him another ten francs, and climbed into the fiacre without another word. A moment later, and the two wheeled cab set off with a lurch and a whip crack from the driver.

Soon enough, the fiacre rolled to a halt, and the driver shouted down that they'd arrived. Enjolras opened the door, and stepped down gracefully onto the street.

"Merci, Monsieur, my apologies for my rudeness earlier." Enjolras nodded up at the man, and set off down the narrow street that was the Rue Plumet, arriving at the old garden gate that, although closed, had been left unlocked after his departure that morning.

He closed the gate behind him, and latched the old lock, and passed through the overgrown garden, easily letting himself inside the house.

And immediately came face to face with a furious Combeferre.

OOO

Charles Jeanne. Michel Geoffroy. General Lemarque. The Marquis de Lafayette. Inspector Javert. The Army Captain who'd crushed the final barricade, what was his name? And that one, that one republican leader, the one who'd escaped. With the Rose Red morning coat.

The names swirled around in his head, and he clenched his pen tightly in his hand as he stared down at the map on his desk, which was littered with papers and notes. He had marked the map with the sites of every barricade that had arisen that day, and numbered them in the order that they fell. He'd written the names and professions of every insurgent that they'd captured. Wanted posters had been drawn up and placed around the city. Raids had been conducted, and weapons confiscated. They'd found a number of insurgents in hiding shortly after the final barricade fell, and they'd all been taken into custody.

"Bélanger! Prefect wishes to speak with you." Another officer called from across the room, and the young man sighed and stood from his desk. He made his way over to the Prefect's office, adjacent to the larger room where most of the officers did their casework.

"Prefect Gisquet, you wished to speak with me?" Bélanger gave a slight bow, and waited for the middle aged, moustached man to beckon him inside before stepping through the door and closing it behind him.

"Inspector Bélanger, have you any news on the aftermath of the rebellion?"

"Non, Prefect, I regret to say that I have not uncovered any new information as of yet."

"It is nearing three weeks since it happened, and we are still missing at least one of the insurgent leaders. And several of his lieutenants, I believe we are correct in assuming, given the body count after that barricade fell compared with the number that Captain Lavoie reported at the beginning of the conflict. It would stand to reason that they are all holed up somewhere, hiding."

"The other officers and myself are all working diligently at tracking down the last of the rebels, Monsieur Prefect, of that I can assure you." Bélanger stood tall, and stared at the wall above the perfect's head, with his hands folded behind his back.

Prefect Gisquet finally sighed, and looked up from the paperwork on his massive desk, "Bélanger, you are only just recently turned thirty, and already an inspector. I suppose it is no mystery then, why Inspector Javert was so often in a….prickly mood, for lack of a better term, when you were present, God rest his soul. I assigned you this case in the hope that you would be able to put my mind at ease with the thought of your rank compared to your level of experience as an officer of the law. Especially given that your patrols take place within my city, and any failure by any of my officers to adequately perform their duties to the fullest of their abilities rests fully on my shoulders in the eyes of the King."

"Monsieur Prefect….a good portion of the other officers and I have searched dozens of homes and shops. The National Guard has conducted raids and confiscated weapons, which I must add has caused many citizens to fear a Military Law being enacted. All of the barricades have been destroyed and the carnage cleaned from the streets. Dozens of insurgents, and rebel sympathizers, have been arrested and are enjoying the high class accommodations in our prisons until the king sets a trial date. A full investigation was conducted over the death of Inspector Javert, and as you know it was ruled an accidental death by drowning, though how he ended up in the river is still unclear." Bélanger wished there was a hole in the floor for him to escape through, for none of the information he was giving was new information that the Prefect did not already know.

"And have you or have you not thought of any new methods for you and your command to try that would lead you to the missing insurgents? The king is growing less patient by the day, Monsieur, and the longer we wait to punish those responsible, the weaker we as a government will appear to the people of France, not to mention our foreign allies and enemies."

Bélanger began to shake his head to signify that he'd not thought of any new methods, but he stopped, shocked by the idea that shot through his mind.

"Inspector, have you or have you not a new plan?"

"Prefect, I just thought of a way to find them, but please hear me out." Bélanger waited for a nod from the police chief before continuing excitedly, "Do you know what a gamin is, Monsieur Prefect?"

"What sort of game are you playing with me, Inspector?" The prefect's face was impatient.

"I am not teasing, Monsieur. You have heard of argot talk, undoubtedly."

"I have, but I do not understand a word of it. Which is precisely what the street scum want."

"It's quite interesting, actually, when you ponder it. Argot talk is derived from traditional French, however, it is at the same time it's own language in and of itself. Many of the working class and most of the lower class, they have a nickname or shorthand name for nearly everything. It serves as a secret language, of sorts. It's slang. Well, gamin is an argot term, and it merely refers to street children, urchins."

"And what do the _gamin_ have to do with our investigation?"

"The gamin are hungry, they wear rags for clothes. They are desperate, and they are sneaky. I myself have witnessed one stroll casually up to a carter on a street corner, and in the line of sight of the carter, swipe an entire loaf of bread from the cart, and he was gone before I could even begin to chase him! The carter had not even an inkling that he'd just been robbed! Gamins are deeply mistrustful of police and soldiers, but they love money more. They can buy food and clothing with money. If we plan it right, we could potentially persuade a few gamins to keep a lookout for any signs of the escaped rebels, and to report to us. With the right incentive, of course." Bélanger theorized, hoping his superior would see the genius in his idea.

The Monsieur Prefect raised an eyebrow, but then nodded his head thoughtfully, "I must admit, it is a creative idea. But will it work?"

"As with any plan, I cannot be absolutely certain, but if my instincts are right, we can persuade them."

"Very well then. You have my permission to put this plan into motion. I will notify the king's deputy, but I must warn you, I likely will not be able to give you any more than a few days. The king is growing impatient as I mentioned, and his trust in this department is waning by the day. If you cannot succeed, then I will be forced to have you faced with disciplinary action. Now get out of my office."

"Yes, Monsieur Prefect. Thank you." The younger man bowed quickly and beat a hasty exit. He was all the more determined now to find and capture those unruly schoolboys and have them punished to the full extent of the law.

Because now his career and his livelihood was on the line.


End file.
